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PARKINSON'S LAW

[AND OTHER STUDIES IN ADMINISTRATION]
BY

C. Northcote Parkinson
Raffles Professor of History
University of Malaya
ILLUSTRATED BY
Robert C. Osborn

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY, BOSTON

SEVENTEENTH PRINTING

(c) 1957 by C. Northcote Parkinson

The Riverside Press
Cambridge - Massachusetts

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 57-9981
Printed in the U.S.A.

for Ann

PREFACE

TO THE VERY YOUNG, to schoolteachers, as also to those who compile
textbooks about constitutional history, politics, and current affairs, the
world is a more or less rational place. They visualize the election of
representatives, freely chosen from among those the people trust. They
picture the process by which the wisest and best of these become ministers
of state. They imagine how captains of industry, freely elected by
shareholders, choose for managerial responsibility those who have proved
their ability in a humbler role. Books exist in which assumptions such as
these are boldly stated or tacitly implied. To those, on the other hand,
with any experience of affairs, these assumptions are merely ludicrous.
Solemn conclaves of the wise and good are mere figments of the teacher's
mind. It is salutary, therefore, if an occasional warning is uttered on this
subject. Heaven forbid that students should cease to read books on the
science of public or business administration— provided only that these
works are classified as fiction. Placed between the novels of Rider Haggard
and H. G. Wells, intermingled with volumes about ape men and space ships,
these textbooks could harm no one. Placed elsewhere, vii among works of
reference, they can do more damage than might at first sight seem possible.

Dismayed to realize what other people suppose to be the truth about
civil servants or building plans, I have occasionally fried to provide, for
those interested, a glimpse of reality. The reader of discrimination will
guess that these glimpses of the truth are based on no ordinary experience.
In the expectation, moreover, that some readers will have less
discrimination than others, I have been careful to hint, occasionally.

1

casually, at the vast amount of research upon which my theories are founded.
Let the reader picture to himself the wall charts, card index cabinets,
calculating machines, slide rules, and reference works that may be thought
the indispensable background to a study such as this. Let him then be
assured that the reality dwarfs all his imagining, and that the truths here
revealed are the work not merely of an admittedly gifted individual but of a
vast and costly research establishment. An occasional reader may feel that
more detailed description should have been given of the experiments and
calculations upon which these theories rest. Let him reflect, however, that
a volume so elaborate would take longer to read and cost more to buy.

While it is undeniable that each one of these essays embodies the
results from years of patient investigation, it must not be supposed that
all has yet been told. The recent discovery in a certain field of warfare
that the number of the enemy killed varies inversely with the number of
generals on one's own side has opened a whole new field of research. A new
significance has been quite recently attributed to the illegibility of
signatures, the attempt being made to fix the point in a successful
executive career at viii which the handwriting becomes meaningless even to
the executive himself New developments occur almost daily, making it
virtually certain that later editions of this work will quickly supersede
the first.

I wish to thank the editors who have given permission to reprint

certain of these essays. Pride of place must go to the editor of The
Economist, the journal in which Parkinson's law was first revealed to
mankind. To the same editor I am indebted for permission to reprint the
essay on "Directors and Councils," as also that on "Pension Point." Certain
of the other articles have also appeared previously in Harper's Magazine and
The Reporter.

To the artist, Robert C. Osborn, I am deeply grateful for adding a

touch of frivolity to a work that might otherwise have seemed too technical
for the general reader. To the publishers I am indebted for their
encouragement, without which I should have attempted little and achieved
still less. Last of all, I place on record the gratitude I feel toward the
higher mathematician with whose science the reader is occasionally blinded
and to whom (but for other reasons) this book is dedicated.

C. NORTHCOTE PARKINSON

Singapore

1957

CONTENTS

4.

2.

9

3.

7.

5.

6.

8

1.

Preface vii

Parkinson's Law, or The Rising Pyramid 2

The Will of the People, or Annual General Meeting 14

High Finance, or The Point of Vanishing Interest 24
Directors and Councils, or Coefficient of Inefficiency 33

The Short List, or Principles of Selection 45

Plans and Plants, or The Administration Block 59

Personality Screen, or The Cocktail Formula 70

Injelititis, or Palsied Paralysis 78

Palm Thatch to Packar4 or A Formula for Success 91

2

10. Pension Point, or The Age of Retirement 101
xi

1. PARKINSON'S LAW, OR THE RISING PYRAMID

WORK EXPANDS so as to fill the time available for its completion.

General recognition of this fact is shown in the proverbial phrase "It is
the busiest man who has time to spare." Thus, an elderly lady of leisure can
spend the entire day in writing and dispatching a postcard to her niece at
Bognor Regis. An hour will be spent in finding the postcard, another in
hunting for spectacles, half an hour in a search for the address, an hour
and a quarter in composition, and twenty minutes in deciding whether or not
to take an umbrella when going to the mailbox in the next street. The total
effort that would occupy a busy man for three minutes all told may in this
fashion leave another person prostrate after a day of doubt, anxiety, and
toil.

Granted that work (and especially paperwork) is thus elastic in its
demands on time, it is manifest that there need be little or no relationship
between the work to be done and the size of the staff to which it may be
assigned. A lack of real activity does not, of necessity, result in leisure.
A lack of occupation is not necessarily revealed by a manifest idleness. The
thing to be done swells in importance and complexity in a direct ratio with
the time to be spent. This fact 2 is widely recognized, but less attention
has been paid to its wider implications, more especially in the field of
public administration. Politicians and taxpayers have assumed (with
occasional phases of doubt) that a rising total in the number of civil
servants must reflect a growing volume of work to be done. Cynics, in
questioning this belief, have 3 imagined that the multiplication of
officials must have left some of them idle or all of them able to work for
shorter hours. But this is a matter in which faith and doubt seem equally
misplaced. The fact is that the number of the officials and the quantity of
the work are not related to each other at all. The rise in the total of
those employed is governed by Parkinson's Law and would be much the same
whether the volume of the work were to increase, diminish, or even
disappear. The importance of Parkinson's Law lies in the fact that it is a
law of growth based upon an analysis of the factors by which that growth is
controlled.

The validity of this recently discovered law must rest mainly on
statistical proofs, which will follow. Of more interest to the general
reader is the explanation of the factors underlying the general tendency to
which this law gives definition. Omitting technicalities (which are
numerous) we may distinguish at the outset two motive forces. They can be
represented for the present purpose by two almost axiomatic statements,
thus: (1) "An official wants to multiply subordinates, not rivals" and (2)
"Officials make work for each other."

To comprehend Factor 1, we must picture a civil servant, called A, who
finds himself overworked. Whether this overwork is real or imaginary is
immaterial, but we should observe, in passing, that As sensation (or
illusion) might easily result from his own decreasing energy: a normal

3

symptom of middle age. For this real or imagined overwork there are, broadly
speaking, three possible remedies. He may resign; he may ask to halve the
work with a colleague called B; he may demand the assistance of two
subordinates, to be called C and D. There is probably no instance 4 in
history, however, of A choosing any but the third alternative. By
resignation he would lose his pension rights. By having B appointed, on his
own level in the hierarchy, he would merely bring in a rival for promotion
to Ws vacancy when W (at long last) retires. So A would rather have C and
D, junior men, below him. They will add to his consequence and, by dividing
the work into two categories, as between C and D, he will have the merit of
being the only man who comprehends them both. It is essential to realize at
this point that C and D are, as it were, inseparable. To appoint C alone
would have been impossible. Why? Because C, if by himself, would divide the
work with A and so assume almost the equal status that has been refused in
the first instance to B; a status the more emphasized if C is A's only
possible successor. Subordinates must thus number two or more, each being
thus kept in order by fear of the other's promotion. When C complains in
turn of being overworked (as he certainly will) A will, with the concurrence
of C, advise the appointment of two assistants to help C. But he can then
avert internal friction only by advising the appointment of two more
assistants to help D, whose position is much the same. With this recruitment
of E, F, G, and H the promotion of A is now practically certain.

Seven officials are now doing what one did before. This is where Factor
2 comes into operation. For these seven make so much work for each other
that all are fully occupied and A is actually working harder than ever. An
incoming document may well come before each of them in turn. Official E
decides that it falls within the province of F, who places a draft reply
before C, who amends it drastically before consulting D, who asks G to deal
with it. But G goes 5 on leave at this point, handing the file over to H,
who drafts a minute that is signed by D and returned to C, who revises his
draft accordingly and lays the new version before A.

What does A do? He would have every excuse for signing the thing
unread, for he has many other matters on his mind. Knowing now that he is to
succeed W next year, he has to decide whether C or D should succeed to his
own office. He had to agree to G's going on leave even if not yet strictly
entitled to it. He is worried whether H should not have gone instead, for
reasons of health. He has looked pale recently— partly but not solely
because of his domestic troubles. Then there is the business of F's special
increment of salary for the period of the conference and E's application for
transfer to the Ministry of Pensions. A has heard that D is in love with a
married typist and that G and F are no longer on speaking terms— no one
seems to know why. So A might be tempted to sign C's draft and have done
with it. But A is a conscientious man. Beset as he is with problems created
by his colleagues for themselves and for him— created by the mere fact of
these officials' existence— he is not the man to shirk his duty. He reads
through the draft with care, deletes the fussy paragraphs added by C and H,
and restores the thing back to the form preferred in the first instance by
the able (if quarrelsome) F. He corrects the English— none of these young
men can write grammatically— and finally produces the same reply he would
have written if officials C to H had never been born. Far more people have
taken far longer to produce the same result. No one has been idle. All have
done their best. And it is late in the evening before A finally quits his
office and begins the return journey to Ealing. The last of 6 the office
lights are being turned off in the gathering dusk that marks the end of

4

another day's administrative toil. Among the last to leave, A reflects with
bowed shoulders and a wry smile that late hours, like gray hairs, are among
the penalties of success.

From this description of the factors at work the student of political
science will recognize that administrators are more or less bound to
multiply. Nothing has yet been said, however, about the period of time
likely to elapse between the date of A's appointment and the date from which
we can calculate the pensionable service of H. Vast masses of statistical
evidence have been collected and it is from a study of this data that
Parkinson's Law has been deduced. Space will not allow of detailed analysis
but the reader will be interested to know that research began in the British
Navy Estimates. These were chosen because the Admiralty's responsibilities
are more easily measurable than those of, say, the Board of Trade. The
question is merely one of numbers and tonnage. Here are some typical
figures. The Strength of the Navy in 1914 could be shown as 146,000 officers
and men, 3249 dockyard officials and clerks, and 57,000 dockyard workmen. By
1928 there were only 100,000 officers and men and only 62,439 workmen, but
the dockyard officials and clerks by then numbered 4558. As for warships,
the strength in 1928 was a mere fraction of what it had been in 1914- fewer
than 20 capital ships in commission as compared with 62. Over the same
period the Admiralty officials had increased in number from 2000 to 3569,
providing (as was remarked) "a magnificent navy on land." These figures are
more clearly set forth in tabular form. 7
ADMIRALTY STATISTICS

Capital ships in Officers and men Dockyard Dockyard officials Admiralty
commission inR.N. workers and clerks officials

1914 62 146,000 57,000 3249 2000

1928 20 100,000 62,439 4558 3569

Year

Increase or
Decrease

-67.74% -31.5% +9.54% +40.28% +78.45%

The criticism voiced at the time centered on the ratio between the
numbers of those available for fighting and those available only for
adminisfration. But that comparison is not to the present purpose. What we
have to note is that the 2000 officials of 1914 had become the 3569 of 1928;
and that this growth was unrelated to any possible increase in their work.
The Navy during that period had diminished, in point of fact, by a third in
men and two-thirds in ships. Nor, from 1922 onward, was its strength even
expected to increase; for its total of ships (unlike its total of officials)
was limited by the Washington Naval Agreement of that year. Here we have
then a 78 per cent increase over a period of fourteen years; an average of
5.6 per cent increase a year on the earher total. In fact, as we shall see,
the rate of increase was not as regular as that. All we have to consider, at
this stage, is the percentage rise over a given period.

Can this rise in the total number of civil servants be accounted for
except on the assumption that such a total must always rise by a law
governing its growth? It might be urged at this point that the period under
discussion 8 9 was one of rapid development in naval technique. The use of
the flying machine was no longer confined to the eccentric. Electrical
devices were being multiplied and elaborated. Submarines were tolerated if
not approved. Engineer officers were beginning to be regarded as almost
human. In so revolutionary an age we might expect that storekeepers would

5

have more elaborate inventories to compile. We might not wonder to see more
draughtsmen on the payroll, more designers, more technicians and scientists.
But these, the dockyard officials, increased only by 40 per cent in number
when the men of Whitehall increased their total by nearly 80 per cent. For
every new foreman or electrical engineer at Portsmouth there had to be two
more clerks at Charing Cross. From this we might be tempted to conclude,
provisionally, that the rate of increase in administrative staff is likely
to be double that of the technical staff at a time when the actually useful
strength (in this case, of seamen) is being reduced by 3 1.5 per cent. It has
been proved statistically, however, that this last percentage is irrelevant.
The officials would have multiplied at the same rate had there been no
actual seamen at all.

It would be interesting to follow the further progress by which the
8118 Admiralty staff of 1935 came to number 33,788 by 1954. But the staff of
the Colonial Office affords a better field of study during a period of
imperial decline. Admiralty statistics are complicated by factors (like the
Fleet Air Arm) that make comparison difficult as between one year and the
next. The Colonial Office growth is more significant in that it is more
purely administrative. Here the relevant statistics are as follows: 10

1935 1939 1943 1947 1954
372 450 817 1139 1661

Before showing what the rate of increase is, we must observe that the
extent of this department's responsibilities was far from constant during
these twenty years. The colonial territories were not much altered in area
or population between 1935 and 1939. They were considerably diminished by
1943, certain areas being in enemy hands. They were increased again in 1947,
but have since then shrunk steadily from year to year as successive colonies
achieve self-government. It would be rational to suppose that these changes
in the scope of Empire would be reflected in the size of its central
administration. But a glance at the figures is enough to convince us that
the staff totals represent nothing but so many stages in an inevitable
increase. And this increase, although related to that observed in other
departments, has nothing to do with the size— or even the existence— of
the Empire. What are the percentages of increase? We must ignore, for this
purpose, the rapid increase in staff which accompanied the diminution of
responsibility during World War II. We should note rather, the peacetime
rates of increase: over 5.24 per cent between 1935 and 1939, and 6.55 per
cent between 1947 and 1954. This gives an average increase of 5.89 per cent
each year, a percentage markedly similar to that already found in the
Admiralty staff increase between 1914 and 1928.

Further and detailed statistical analysis of departmental staffs would
be inappropriate in such a work as this. It 1 1 is hoped, however, to reach a
tentative conclusion regarding the time likely to elapse between a given
official's first appointment and the later appointment of his two or more
assistants.

Dealing with the problem of pure staff accumulation, all our researches
so far completed point to an average increase of 5.75 per cent per year.
This fact establishe4 it now becomes possible to state Parkinson's Law in
mathematical form: In any public administrative department not actually at
war, the staff increase may be expected to follow this formula—

6

x=(2k'"+r)/n

k is the number of staff seeking promotion through the appointment of
subordinates; / represents the difference between the ages of appointment
and retirement; m is the number of man-hours devoted to answering minutes
within the department; and n is the number of effective units being
administered, x will be the number of new staff required each year.
Mathematicians will realize, of course, that to find the percentage increase
they must multiply X by 100 and divide by the total of the previous year,
thus:

100 (2k'"+l)/y n %

where y represents the total original staff. This figure will invariably
prove to be between 5. 17 per cent and 6.56 per cent, irrespective of any
variation in the amount of work (if any) to be done. 12

The discovery of this formula and of the general principles upon which
it is based has, of course, no political value. No attempt has been made to
inquire whether departments ought to grow in size. Those who hold that this
growth is essential to gain full employment are fully entitled to their
opinion. Those who doubt the stability of an economy based upon reading each
other's minutes are equally entitled to theirs. It would probably be
premature to attempt at this stage any inquiry into the quantitative ratio
that should exist between the administrators and the administered. Granted,
however, that a maximum ratio exists, it should soon be possible to
ascertain by formula how many years will elapse before that ratio, in any
given community, will be reached. The forecasting of such a result will
again have no political value. Nor can it be sufficiently emphasized that
Parkinson's Law is a purely scientific discovery, inapplicable except in
theory to the politics of the day. It is not the business of the botanist to
eradicate the weeds. Enough for him if he can tell us just how fast they
grow. 13

2. THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE, OR ANNUAL GENERAL MEETING

WE ARE ALL familiar with the basic difference between English and
French parliamentary institutions; copied respectively by such other
assemblies as derive Irom each. We all realize that this main difference has
nothing to do with national temperament, but stems from their seating plans.
The British, being brought up on team games, enter their House of Commons in
the spirit of those who would rather be doing something else. If they cannot
be playing golf or tennis, they can at least pretend that politics is a game
with very similar rules. But for this device. Parliament would arouse even
less interest than it does. So the British instinct is to form two opposing
teams, with referee and linesmen, and let them debate until they exhaust
themselves. The House of Commons is so arranged that the individual Member
is practically compelled to take one side or the other before he knows what
the arguments are, or even (in some cases) before he knows the subject of

7

the dispute. His training from birth has been to play for his side, and this
saves him from any undue mental effort. Sliding into a seat toward the end
of a speech, he knows exactly how to take up the argument from the point it
has 14 reached. If the speaker is on his own side of the House, he will say
"Hear, hear!" If he is on the opposite side, he can safely say "Shame!" or
merely "Oh! " At some later stage he may have time to ask his neighbor what
the debate is supposed to be about. Sfrictly speaking, however, there is no
need for him to do this. He knows enough in any case not to kick into his
own goal. The men who sit opposite are entirely wrong and all their
arguments are so much drivel. The men on his own side are statesmanlike, by
confrast, and their speeches a singular blend of wisdom, eloquence, and
moderation. Nor does it make the slightest difference whether he learned his
politics at Harrow or in following the fortunes of Aston Villa. In either
school he will have learned when to cheer and when to groan. But the British
system depends entirely on its seating plan. If the benches did not face
each other, no one could tell truth from falsehood— wisdom from foUy—
unless indeed 15 by listening to it all. But to hsten to it all would be
ridiculous, for half the speeches must of necessity be nonsense.

In France the initial mistake was made of seating the representatives
in a semicircle, all facing the chair. The resulting confusion could be
imagined if it were not notorious. No real opposing teams could be formed
and no one could tell (without listening) which argument was the more
cogent. There was the further handicap of all the proceedings being in
French— an example the United States wisely refused to follow. But the
French system is bad enough even when the linguistic difficulty does not
arise. Instead of having two sides, one in the right and the other in the
wrong— so that the issue is clear from the outset— the French form a
multitude of teams facing in all directions. With the field in such
confusion, the game cannot even begin. Basically their representatives are
of the Right or of the Left, according to where they sit. This is a
perfectly sound scheme. The French have not gone to the extreme of seating
people in alphabetical order. But the semicircular chamber allows of subtle
distinctions between the various degrees of tightness and leftness. There is
none of the clear-cut British distinction between rightness and wrongness.
One deputy is described, politically, as to the left of Monsieur Untel but
well to the right of Monsieur Quelquechose. What is anyone to make of that?
What should we make of it even in English? What do they make of it
themselves? The answer is, "Nothing."

All this is generally known. What is less generally recognized is that
the paramount importance of the seating 16 plan applies to other assemblies
and meetings, international, national, and local. It applies, moreover, to
meetings round a table such as occur at a Round Table Conference. A moment's
thought will convince us that a Square Table Conference would be something
totally different and a Long Table Conference would be different again.
These differences do not merely affect the length and acrimony of the
discussion; they also affect what (if anything) is decided. Rarely, as we
know, will the voting relate to the merits of the case. The final decision
is influenced by a variety of factors, few of which need concern us at the
moment. We should note, however, that the issue is actually decided, in the
end, by the votes of the center bloc. This would not be true in the House of
Commons, where no such bloc is allowed to develop. But at other conferences

8

the center bloc is all important. This bloc essentially comprises the
following elements:

a. Those who have failed to master any one of the memoranda written in
advance and showered weeks beforehand on all those who are expected to be
present.

b. Those who are too stupid to follow the proceedings at all. These are
readily distinguishable by their tendency to mutter to each other: "What is
the fellow talking about?"

c. Those who are deaf They sit with their hands cupping their ears,
growling "I wish people would speak up."

d. Those who were dead drunk in the small hours and have turned up
(heaven knows why) with a splitting headache and a conviction that nothing
matters either way.

e. The senile, whose chief pride is in being as fit as ever— fitter
indeed than a lot of these younger men. "I 11 walked here," they whisper.
"Pretty good for a man of eighty-two, what?"

f The feeble, who have weakly promised to support both sides and don't
know what to do about it. They are of two minds as to whether they should
abstain from voting or pretend to be sick.

Toward capturing the votes of the center bloc the first step is to
identify and count the members. That done, everything else depends on where
they are to sit. The best technique is to detail off known and stalwart
supporters to enter into conversation with named middle-bloc types before
the meeting actually begins. In this preliminary chat the stalwarts will
carefully avoid mentioning the main subject of debate. They will be trained
to use the opening gambits listed below, corresponding to the categories a
to /, into which the middle bloc naturally falls:

a. "Waste of time, I call it, producing all these documents. I have
throvm most of mine away."

b. "I expect we shall be dazzled by eloquence before long. I often wish
people would talk less and come to the point. They are too clever by half,
if you ask me."

c. "The acoustics of this hall are simply terrible. You would have
thought these scientific chaps could do something about it. For half the
time I CAN'T HEAR WHAT IS BEING SAID. CAN YOU?"

d. "What a rotten place to meet! I think there is something the matter
with the ventilation. It makes me feel almost unwell. What about you?"

e. "My goodness, I don't know how you do it! Tell me the secret. Is it
what you have for breakfast?"

f "There's so much to be said on both sides of the 18 question that I
really don't know which side to support. What do you feel about it?"

If these gambits are correctly played, each stalwart will start a
lively conversation, in the midst of which he vwU steer his middle-blocsman
toward the forum. As he does this, another stalwart will place himself just
ahead of the pair and moving in the same direction. The drill is best
illustrated by a concrete example. We will suppose that stalwart X (Mr.
Sturdy) is steering middle-blocsman Y (Mr. Waverley, type f) toward a seat
near the front. Ahead goes stalwart Z (Mr. Staunch), who presently takes a
seat without appearing to notice the two men following him. Staunch turns in
the opposite direction and waves to someone in the distance. Then he leans
over to make a few remarks to the man in front of him. Only when Waverley
has sat down will Staunch presently turn toward him and say, "My dear
fellow— how nice to see you!" Only some minutes later again will he catch
sight of Sturdy and start visibly with surprise. "Hallo, Sturdy— I didn't

9

think you would be here!" "I've recovered now," replies Sturdy. "It was only
a chill. " The seating order is thus made to appear completely accidental,
casual, and friendly. That completes Phase I of the operation, and it would
be much the same whatever the exact category in which the middle-blocsman is
believed to fall.

Phase II has to be adjusted according to the character of the man to be
influenced. In the case of Waverley (Type f) the object in Phase II is to
avoid any discussion of the matter at issue but to produce the impression
that the thing is already decided. Seated near the front, Waverley will be
unable to see much of the other members and 19 can be given the impression
that they practically all think alike.

"Really," says Sturdy, "I don't know why I bothered to come. I gather
that Item Four is pretty well agreed. All the fellows I meet seem to have
made up their minds to vote for it." (Or against it, as the case may be.)

"Curious," says Staunch. "I was just going to say the same thing. The
issue hardly seems to be in doubt."

"I had not really made up my own mind," says Sturdy. 20 "There was much
to be said on either side. But opposition would really be a waste of time.
What do you think, Waverley?"

"Well," says Waverley, "I must admit that I find the question rather
baffling. On the one hand, there is good reason to agree to the motion ...
As against that... Do you think it will pass?"

"My dear Waverley, I would trust your judgment in this. You were saying
just now that it is already agreed. "21

"Oh, was I? Well, there does seem to be a majority. ... Or perhaps I
should say ..."

"Thank you, Waverley," says Staunch, "for your opinion. I think just
the same but am particularly interested to find you agree with me. There is
no one whose opinion I value more."

Sturdy, meanwhile, is leaning over to talk to someone in the row
behind. What he actually says, in a low voice, is this, "How is your wife
now? Is she out of hospital?" When he turns back again, however, it is to
announce that the people behind all think the same. The motion is as good as
passed. And so it is if the drill goes according to plan.

While the other side has been busy preparing speeches and phrasing
amendments, the side with the superior technique will have concentrated on
pinning each middle-blocsman between two reliable supporters. When the
crucial moment comes, the raising of a hand on either side will practically
compel the waverer to follow suit. Should he be actually asleep, as often
happens with middle-blocsman in categories d and e, his hand will be raised
for him by the member on his right. This rule is merely to obviate both his
hands being raised, a gesture that has been known to attract unfavorable
comment. With the middle bloc thus secured, the motion will be carried with
a comfortable margin; or else rejected, if that is thought preferable. In
nearly every matter of controversy to be decided by the will of the people,
we can assume that the people who will decide are members of the middle
bloc. Delivery of speeches is therefore a waste of time. The one party will
never agree and the other party has agreed 22 already. Remains the middle
bloc, the members of which divide into those who cannot hear what is being
said and those who would not understand it even if they did. To secure their
votes what is needed is primarily the example of others voting on either

10

side of them. Their votes can thus be swayed by accident. How much better,
by contrast, to sway them by design! 23

3. fflGH FINANCE, OR THE POINT OF VANISHING INTEREST

PEOPLE WHO understand high finance are of two kinds: those who have
vast fortunes of their own and those who have nothing at all. To the actual
millionaire a million dollars is something real and comprehensible. To the
applied mathematician and the lecturer in economics (assuming both to be
practically starving) a million dollars is at least as real as a thousand,
they having never possessed either sum. But the world is full of people who
fall between these two categories, knowing nothing of millions but well
accustomed to think in thousands, and it is of these that finance committees
are mostly comprised. The result is a phenomenon that has often been
observed but never yet investigated. It might be termed the Law of
Triviality. Briefly stated, it means that the time spent on any item of the
agenda will be in inverse proportion to the sum involved.

On second thoughts, the statement that this law has never been
investigated is not entirely accurate. Some work has actually been done in
this field, but the investigators pursued a line of inquiry that led them
nowhere. They assumed that the greatest significance should attach to the
order in which items of the agenda are taken. They assumed, 24 further, that
most of the available time will be spent on items one to seven and that the
later items will be allowed automatically to pass. The result is well known.
The derision with which Dr. Guggenheim's lecture was received at the
Muttworth Conference may have been thought excessive at the time, but all
further discussions on this topic have tended to show that his critics were
right. Years had been wasted in a research of which the basic assumptions
were wrong. We realize now that position on the agenda is a minor
consideration, so far, at least, as this problem is concerned. We consider
also that Dr. Guggenheim was lucky to escape as he did, in his underwear.
Had he dared to put his lame conclusions before the later conference in
September, he would have faced something more than derision. The view would
have been taken that he was deliberately wasting time.

If we are to make further progress in this investigation we must ignore
all that has so far been done. We must start at the beginning and understand
fully the way in which a finance committee actually works. For the sake of
the general reader this can be put in dramatic form thus:

Chairman We come now to Item Nine. Our Treasurer, Mr. McPhail, will report.

Mr. McPhail The estimate for the Atomic Reactor is before you, sir, set
forth in Appendix H of the subcommittee's report. You will see that the
general design and layout has been approved by Professor McFission. The
total cost will amount to $10,000,000. The contractors, Messrs. McNab and
McHash, consider that the work should be complete 25 by April, 1959. Mr.
McFee, the consulting engineer, warns us that we should not count on
completion before October, at the earliest. In this view he is supported by

11

Dr. McHeap, the well-known geophysicist, who refers to the probable need for
piling at the lower end of the site. The plan of the main building is before
you— see Appendix IX— and the blueprint is laid on the table. I shall be
glad to give any further information that members of this committee may
require.

Chairman Thank you, Mr. McPhail, for your very lucid explanation of the plan
as proposed. I will now invite the members present to give us their views.

It is necessary to pause at this point and consider what views the
members are likely to have. Let us suppose that they number eleven,
including the Chairman but excluding the Secretary. Of these eleven members,
four— including the chairman— do not know what a reactor is. Of the
remainder, three do not know what it is for. Of those who know its purpose,
only two have the least idea of what it should cost. One of these is Mr.
Isaacson, the other is Mr. Brickworth. Either is in a position to say
something. We may suppose that Mr. Isaacson is the first to speak.

Mr. Isaacson Well, Mr. Chairman. I could wish that I felt more confidence in
our contractors and consultant. Had we gone to Professor Levi in the first
instance, and had the contract been given to Messrs. David and Goliath, I
should have been happier about the whole scheme. Mr. Lyon-Daniels would not
have wasted our time with wild guesses about the possible delay in
completion, and Dr. 26 Moses Bulhush would have told us definitely whether
piling would be wanted or not.

Chairman I am sure we all appreciate Mr. Isaacson's anxiety to complete this
work in the best possible way. I feel, however, that it is rather late in
the day to call in new technical advisers. I admit that the main contract
has still to be signed, but we have already spent very large sums. If we
reject the advice for which we have paid, we shall have to pay as much
again.

(Other members murmur agreement.)

Mr. Isaacson I should like my observation to be minuted.

Chairman Certainly. Perhaps Mr. Brickworth also has something to say on this
matter?

Now Mr. Brickworth is almost the only man there who knows what he is
talking about. There is a great deal he could say. He distrusts that round
figure of $10,000,000. Why should it come out to exactly that? Why need they
demolish the old building to make room for the new approach? Why is so large
a sum set aside for "contingencies"? And who is McHeap, anyway? Is he the
man who was sued last year by the Trickle and Driedup Oil Corporation? But
Brickworth does not know where to begin. The other members could not read
the blueprint if he referred to it. He would have to begin by explaining
what a reactor is and no one there would admit that he did not already know.
Better to say nothing. 27

Mr. Brickworth I have no comment to make.

Chairman Does any other member wish to speak? Very well. I may take it then

12

that the plans and estimates are approved? Thank you. May 1 now sign the
main contract on your behalf? (Murmur of agreement) Thank you. We can now
move on to Item Ten.

Allowing a few seconds for rustling papers and unrolling diagrams, the
time spent on Item Nine will have been just two minutes and a half The
meeting is going well. But 28 some members feel uneasy about Item Nine. They
wonder inwardly whether they have really been pulling their weight. It is
too late to query that reactor scheme, but they would like to demonstrate,
before the meeting ends, that they are alive to aU that is going on.

Chairman Item Ten. Bicycle shed for the use of the clerical staff. An
estimate has been received from Messrs. Bodger and Woodworm, who undertake
to complete the work for the sum of $2350. Plans and specification are
before you, gentlemen.

Mr. Softleigh Surely, Mr. Chairman, this sum is excessive. I note that the
roof is to be of aluminum. Would not asbestos be cheaper?

Mr. Holdfast I agree with Mr. Softleigh about the cost, but the roof should,
in my opinion, be of galvanized iron. I incline to think that the shed could
be built for $2000, or even less.

Mr. Daring I would go further, Mr. Chairman. I question whether this shed is
really necessary. We do too much for our staff as it is. They are never
satisfied, that is the trouble. They will be wanting garages next.

Mr. Holdfast No, I can't support Mr. Daring on this occasion. I think that
the shed is needed. It is a question of material and cost...

The debate is fairly launched. A sum of $2350 is well within
everybody's comprehension. Everyone can visualize a bicycle shed. Discussion
goes on, therefore, for forty- five 29 minutes, with the possible result of
saving some $300. Members at length sit back with a feeling of achievement.

Chairman Item Eleven. Refreshments supplied at meetings of the Joint Welfare
Committee. Monthly, $4.75.

Mr. Softleigh What type of refreshment is supplied on these occasions?
Chairman Coffee, I understand.

Mr. Holdfast And this means an annual charge of- let me see— $57?
Chairman That is so.

Mr. Daring Well, really, Mr. Chairman. I question whether this is justified.
How long do these meetings last?

Now begins an even more acrimonious debate. There may be members of the
committee who might fail to distinguish between asbestos and galvanized
iron, but every man there knows about coffee— what it is, how it should be

13

made, where it should be bought— and whether indeed it should be bought at
all. This item on the agenda will occupy the members for an hour and a
quarter, and they will end by asking the Secretary to procure further
information, leaving the matter to be decided at the next meeting.

It would be natural to ask at this point whether a still smaller sum—
$20, perhaps, or $10- would occupy the Finance Committee for a
proportionately longer time. On this point, it must be admitted, we are
still ignorant. Our tentative conclusion must be that there is a point at
which the whole tendency is reversed, the committee members 30 concluding
that the sum is beneath their notice. Research has still to establish the
point at which this reversal occurs. The transition from the $50 debate (an
hour and a quarter) to the $20 debate (two and a half minutes) is indeed an
abrupt one. It would be the more interesting to establish the exact point at
which it occurs. More than that, it would be of practical value. Supposing,
for example, that the point of vanishing interest is represented by the sum
of $35, the Treasurer with an item of $62.80 on the agenda might well decide
to present it as two items, one of $30.00 and the other of $32.80, with an
evident saving in time and effort.

3 1 Conclusions at this juncture can be merely tentative, but there is

some reason to suppose that the point of vanishing interest represents the
sum the individual committee member is willing to lose on a bet or subscribe
to a charity. An inquiry on these lines conducted on racecourses and in
Methodist chapels, might go far toward solving the problem. Far greater
difficulty may be encountered in attempting to discover the exact point at
which the sum involved becomes too large to discuss at all. One thing
apparent, however, is that the time spent on $10,000,000 and on $10 may well
prove to be the same. The present estimated time of two and a half minutes
is by no means exact, but there is clearly a space of time— something
between two and foiir and a half minutes— which suffices equally for the
largest and the smallest sums.

Much further investigation remains to be done, but the final results,
when published, cannot fail to be of absorbing interest and of immediate
value to mankind. 32

4. DIRECTORS AND COUNCILS, OR COEFFICIENT OF INEFFICIENCY

THE LIFE CYCLE of the committee is so basic to our knowledge of current
affairs that it is surprising more attention has not been paid to the
science of comitology. The first and most elementary principle of this
science is that a committee is organic rather than mechanical in its nature:
it is not a structure but a plant. It takes root and grows, it flowers,
wilts, and dies, scattering the seed fi-om which other committees will bloom
in their turn. Only those who bear this principle in mind can make real
headway in understanding the structure and history of modern goverimient.

Committees, it is nowadays accepted, fall broadly into two categories,

14

those (a) from which the individual member has something to gain; and those
(b) to which the individual member merely has something to contribute.
Examples of the B group, however, are relatively unimportant for our
purpose; indeed some people doubt whether they are committees at all. It is
from the more robust A group that we can learn most readily the principles
which are common (with modifications) to all. Of the A group the most deeply
rooted and luxuriant committees are those which confer the most power and
prestige upon their members. 33 In most parts of the world these conmiittees
are called "cabinets." This chapter is based on an extensive study of
national cabinets, over space and time.

When first examined under the microscope, the cabinet council usually
appears— to comitologists, historians, and even to the people who appoint
cabinets— to consist ideally of five. With that number the plant is viable,
allowing for two members to be absent or sick at any one time. Five members
are easy to collect and, when collected, can act with competence, secrecy,
and speed. Of these original members four may well be versed, respectively,
in finance, foreign policy, defense, and law. The fifth, who has failed to
master any of these subjects, usually becomes the chairman or prime
minister. 34

35 Whatever the apparent convenience might be of restricting the
membership to five, however, we discover by observation that the total
number soon rises to seven or nine. The usual excuse given for this
increase, which is almost invariable (exceptions being found, however, in
Luxembourg and Honduras), is the need for special knowledge on more than
four topics. In fact, however, there is another and more potent reason for
adding to the team. For in a cabinet of nine it will be found that policy is
made by three, information supplied by two, and financial warning uttered by
one. With the neutral chairman, that accounts for seven, the other two
appearing at first glance to be merely ornamental. This allocation of duties
was first noted in Britain in about 1639, but there can be no doubt that the
folly of including more than three able and talkative men in one committee
had been discovered long before then. We know little as yet about the
function of the two silent members but we have good reason to believe that a
cabinet, in this second stage of development, might be unworkable without
them.

There are cabinets in the world (those of Costa Rica, Ecuador, Northern
Ireland, Liberia, the Philippines, Uruguay, and Panama will at once be
called to mind) which have remained in this second stage— that is, have
restricted their membership to nine. These remain, however, a small
minority. Elsewhere and in larger territories cabinets have generally been
subject to a law of growth. Other members come to be admitted, some with a
claim to special knowledge but more because of their nuisance value when
excluded. Their opposition can be silenced only by implicating them in every
decision that is made. As they 36 are brought in (and placated) one after
another, the total membership rises from ten toward twenty. In this third
stage of cabinets, there are already considerable drawbacks.

The most immediately obvious of these disadvantages is the difficulty
of assembling people at the same place, date, and time. One member is going
away on the 18th, whereas another does not return until the 21st. A third is
never free on Tuesdays, and a fourth never available before 5 P.M. But that
is only the beginning of the trouble, for, once most of them are collected.

15

there is a far greater chance of members proving to be elderly, tiresome,
inaudible, and deaf Relatively few were chosen from any idea that they are
or could be or have ever been useful. A majority perhaps were brought in
merely to conciliate some outside group. Their tendency is therefore to
report what happens to the group they represent. All secrecy is lost and,
worst of all, members begin to prepare their speeches. They address the
meeting and tell their friends afterwards about what they imagine they have
said. But the more these merely representative members assert themselves,
the more loudly do other outside groups clamor for representation. Internal
parties form and seek to gain strength by further recruitment. The total of
twenty is reached and passed. And thereby, quite suddenly, the cabinet
enters the fourth and final stage of its history.

For at this point of cabinet development (between 20 and 22 members)
the whole committee suffers an abrupt organic or chemical change. The nature
of this change is easy to trace and comprehend. In the first place, the five
members who matter will have taken to meeting beforehand. With decisions
already reached, little remains for 37 the nominal executive to do. And, as
a consequence of this, all resistance to the committee's expansion comes to
an end. More members will not waste more time; for the whole meeting is, in
any case, a waste of time. So the pressure of outside groups is temporarily
satisfied by the admission of their representatives, and decades may elapse
before they realize how illusory their gain has been. With the doors wide
open, membership rises from 20 to 30, from 30 to 40. There may soon be an
instance of such a membership reaching the thousand mark. But this does not
matter. For the cabinet has already ceased to be a real cabinet, and has
been succeeded in its old functions by some other body.

Five times in English history the plant has moved through its life
cycle. It would admittedly be difficult to prove that the first incarnation
of the cabinet— the English Council of the Crown, now called the House of
Lords— ever had a membership as small as five. When we first hear of it,
indeed, its more intimate character had aheady been lost, with a hereditary
membership varying from 29 to 50. Its subsequent expansion, however, kept
pace with its loss of power. In round figures, it had 60 members in 1601,
140 in 1661, 220 in 1760, 400 in 1850, 650 in 1911, and 850 in 1952.

At what point in this progression did the inner committee appear in the
womb of the peerage? It appeared in about 1257, its members being called the
Lords of the King's Council and numbering less than 10. They numbered no
more than 11 in 1378, and as few still in 1410. Then, from the reign of
Henry V, they began to multiply. The 20 of 1433 had become the 41 of 1504,
the total reaching 172 before the council finally ceased to meet. 38

Within the King's Council there developed the cabinet's third
incarnation— the Privy Council— with an original membership of nine. It
rose to 20 in 1540, to 29 in 1547, and to 44 in 1558. The Privy Council as
it ceased to be effective increased proportionately in size. It had 47
members in 1679, 67 in 1723, 200 in 1902, and 300 in 1951.

Within the Privy Council there developed the junto or Cabinet Council,
which effectively superseded the former in about 1615. Numbering 8 when we
first hear of it, its members had come to number 12 by about 1700, and 20 by
1725. The Cabinet Council was then superseded in about 1740 by an inner
group, since called simply the Cabinet. Its development is best studied in
tabular form. This is shown in Table I.

TABLE I- GROWTH OF THE ENGLISH CABINET
1740 5 1885 16 1945 16

16

1784 7 1900 20 1945 20
1801 12 1915 22 1949 17
1841 14 1935 22 1954 18
1939 23

From 1939, it will be apparent, there has been a struggle to save this
institution; a struggle similar to the attempts made to save the Privy
Council during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. The Cabinet appeared to be in
its decline in 1940, with an inner cabinet (of 5, 7, or 9 members) ready to
take its place. The issue, however, remains in doubt. It is just possible
that the British cabinet is still an important body.

Compared with the cabinet of Britain, the cabinet of the 39 United
States has shown an extraordinary resistance to political inflation. It had
the appropriate number of 5 members in 1789, still only 7 by 1840, 9 by
1901, 10 by 1913, 1 1 by 1945, and then— against tradition— had come down
to 10 again by 1953. Whether this attempt, begun in 1947, to restrict the
membership will succeed for long is doubtful. All experience would suggest
the inevitability of the previous trend. In the meanwhile, the United States
enjoys (with Guatemala and El Salvador) a reputation for
cabinet-exclusiveness, having actually fewer cabinet ministers than
Nicaragua or Paraguay.

TABLE II - SIZE OF CABINETS
No. of Members

6 Honduras, Luxembourg

7 Haiti, Iceland, Switzerland

9 Costa Rica, Ecuador, N. Ireland, Liberia, Panama, Philippines, Uruguay

10 Guatemala, El Salvador, United States

1 1 Brazil, Nicaragua, Pakistan, Paraguay

12 Bolivia, Chile, Peru

13 Colombia, Dominican R., Norway, Thailand

14 Denmark, India, S. Africa, Sweden

15 Austria, Belgium, Finland, fran. New Zealand, Portugal, Venezuela

16 Iraq, Netherlands, Turkey

17 Eire, Israel, Spain

18 Egypt) Gt. Britain, Mexico

19 W. Germany, Greece, Indonesia, Italy

20 Australia, Formosa, Japan

21 Argentina, Burma, Canada, France

22 China

24 E. Germany

26 Bulgaria

27 Cuba

29 Rumania

32 Czechoslovakia

35 Yugoslavia

38 USSR

17

How do other countries compare in this respect? The majority of
non-totalitarian countries have cabinets that number between 12 and 20
members. Taking the average 40 of over 60 countries, we find that it comes
to over 16; the most popular numbers are 15 (seven instances) and 9 (seven
again). Easily the queerest cabinet is that of New Zealand, one member of
which has to be announced as "Minister of Lands, Minister of Forests,
Minister of Maori Affairs, Minister in charge of Maori Trust Office and of
Scenery Preservation." The toastmaster at a New Zealand banquet must be
equally ready to crave silence for "The Minister of Health, Minister
Assistant to the Prime Minister, Minister in Charge of State Advances
Corporation, Census, and Statistics Department, Public Trust Office and
Publicity and Information." In other lands this oriental profusion is
fortunately rare.

A study of the British example would suggest that the point of
ineffectiveness in a cabinet is reached when the total membership exceeds 20
or perhaps 21. The Council of the Crown, the King's Council, the Privy
Council had each passed the 20 mark when their decline began. The present
British cabinet is just short of that number now, having recoiled from the
abyss. We might be tempted to conclude from this that cabinets - or other
committees ~ with a membership in excess of 21 are losing the reality of
power and that those with a larger membership have already lost it. No such
theory can be tenable, however, without statistical proof Table II on the
preceding page attempts to furnish part of it.

Should we be justified in drawing a line in that table under the name
of France (21 cabinet members) with an explanatory note to say that the
cabinet is not the real power in countries shown below that line? Some
comitologists would accept that conclusion without further 41 research.
Others emphasize the need for careful investigation, more especially around
the borderline of 21. But that the coefficient of inefficiency must he
between 19 and 22 is now very generally agreed.

What tentative explanation can we offer for this hypothesis? Here we
must distinguish sharply between fact and theory, between the symptom and
the disease. About the most obvious symptom there is little disagreement. It
is known that with over 20 members present a meeting begins to change
character. Conversations develop separately at either end of the table. To
make himself heard, the member has therefore to rise. Once on his feet, he
cannot help making a speech, if only from force of habit. "Mr. Chairman," he
will begin, "1 think I may assert without fear of contradiction— and I am
speaking now from twenty-five (1 might almost say twenty-seven) years of
experience— that we must view this matter in the gravest light. A heavy
responsibility rests upon us, sir, and I for one..." Amid all this drivel
the useful men present, if there are any, exchange little notes that read,
"Lunch with me tomorrow— we'll fix it then."

What else can they do? The voice drones on interminably. The orator
might just as well be talking in his sleep. The committee of which he is the
most useless member has ceased to matter. It is finished. It is hopeless. It
is dead.

So much is certain. But the root cause of the trouble goes deeper and
has still, in part, to be explored. Too many vital factors are unknown. What
is the shape and size of the table? What is the average age of those
present? At what hour does the committee meet? In a book for the 42
non-specialist it would be absurd to repeat the calculations by which the

18

first and tentative coefficient of inefficiency has been reached. It should
be enough to state that prolonged research at the Institute of Comitology
has given rise to a formula which is now widely (although not universally)
accepted by the experts in this field. It should perhaps be explained that
the investigators assumed a temperate climate, leather-padded chairs and a
high level of sobriety. On this basis, the formula is as follows:

x=(m°(a-d))/(y+p b^'^)

Where m = the average number of members actually present; o = the number of
members influenced by outside pressure groups; a = the average age of the
members; d = the distance in centimeters between the two members who are
seated farthest from each other; y = the number of years since the cabinet
or committee was first formed; p = the patience of the chairman, as measured
on the Peabody scale; b = the average blood pressure of the three oldest
members, taken shortly before the time of meeting. Then x = the number of
members effectively present at the moment when the efficient working of the
cabinet or other committee has become manifestly impossible. This is the
coefficient of inefficiency and it is found to lie between 19.9 and 22.4.
(The decimals represent partial attendance; those absent for a part of the
meeting.)

It would be unsound to conclude, from a cursory inspection of this
equation that the science of comitology is in an advanced state of
development. Comitologists and subcomitologists would make no such claim, if
only from 43 fear of unemployment. They emphasize, rather, that their
studies have barely begun and that they are on the brink of astounding
progress. Making every allowance for self-interest— which means discounting
90 per cent of what they say— we can safely assume that much work remains
to do.

We should eventually be able, for example, to learn the formula by
which the optimum number of committee members may be determined. Somewhere
between the number of 3 (when a quorum is impossible to collect) and
approximately 2 1 (when the whole organism begins to perish), there lies the
golden number. The interesting theory has been propounded that this number
must be 8. Why? Because it is the only number which all existing states (See
Table II above) have agreed to avoid. Atfractive as this theory may seem at
first sight, it is open to one serious objection. Eight was the number
preferred by King Charles I for his Committee of State. And look what
happened to him! 44

5. THE SHORT LIST, OR PRINCIPLES OF SELECTION

A PROBLEM constantly before the modern administration, whether in
government or business, is that of personnel selection. The inexorable
working of Parkinson's Law ensures that appointments have constantly to be
made and the question is always how to choose the right candidate from all

19

who present themselves. In ascertaining the principles upon which the choice
should be made, we may properly consider, under separate heads, the methods
used in the past and the methods used at the present day.

Past methods, not entirely disused, fall into two main categories, the
British and the Chinese. Both deserve careful consideration, if only for the
reason that they were obviously more successful than any method now
considered fashionable. The British method (old pattern) depended upon an
interview in which the candidate had to establish his identity. He would be
confronted by elderly gentlemen seated round a mahogany table who would
presently ask him his name. Let us suppose that the candidate replied, "John
Seymour." One of the gentlemen would then say, "Any relation of the Duke of
Somerset?" To this the candidate would say, quite possibly, "No, sir." Then
another 45 gentleman would say, "Perhaps you are related, in that case, to
the Bishop of Watminster?" If he said "No, sir" again, a third would ask in
despair, "To whom then are you related?" In the event of the candidate's
saying, "Well, my father is a fishmonger in Cheapside," the interview was
virtually over. The members of the Board would exchange significant glances,
one would press a bell and another tell the footman, "Throw this person
out." One name could be crossed off the list without further discussion.
Supposing the next candidate was Henry Molyneux and a nephew of the Earl of
Sefton, his chances remained fair up to the moment when George Howard
arrived and proved to be a grandson of the Duke of Norfolk. The Board
encountered no serious difficulty until they had to compare the claims of
the third son of a baronet with the second but illegitimate son of a
viscount. Even then they could refer to a Book of Precedence. So their
choice was made and often with the best results.

The Admiralty version of this British method (old pattern) was
different only in its more restricted scope. The Board of Admirals were
unimpressed by titled relatives as such. What they sought to establish was a
service connection. The ideal candidate would reply to the second question,
"Yes, Admiral Parker is my uncle. My father is Captain Foley, my grandfather
Commodore Foley. My mother's father was Admiral Hardy. Commander Hardy is
uncle. My eldest brother is a Lieutenant in the Royal Marines, my next
brother is a cadet at Dartmouth and my younger brother wears a sailor suit. "
"Ah!" the senior Admiral would say. "And what made you think of joining the
Navy?" The answer to this question, however, would 46 47 scarcely matter,
the clerk present having already noted the candidate as acceptable. Given a
choice between two candidates, both equally acceptable by birth, a member of
the Board would ask suddenly, "What was the number of the taxi you came in?"
The candidate who said "I came by bus" was then thrown out. The candidate
who said, truthfully, "1 don't know," was rejected, and the candidate who
said "Number 2351" (lying) was promptly admitted to the service as a boy
with initiative. This method often produced excellent results.

The British method (new pattern) was evolved in the late nineteenth
century as something more suitable for a democratic country. The Selection
Committee would ask briskly, "What school were you at?" and would be told
Harrow, Haileybury, or, Rugby, as the case might be. "What games do you
play?" would be the next and invariable question. A promising candidate
would reply, "1 have played tennis for England, cricket for Yorkshire, rugby
for the Harlequins, and fives for Winchester." The next question would then
be "Do you play polo?"-- just to prevent the candidate's thinking too highly

20

of himself. Even without playing polo, however, he was evidently worth
serious consideration. Little time, by contrast, was wasted on the man who
admitted to having been educated at Wiggleworth. "Where?" the chairman would
ask in astonishment, and "Where's that?" after the name had been repeated.
"Oh, in Lancashire!" he would say at last. Just for a matter of form, some
member might ask, "What games do you play?" But the reply "Table tennis for
Wigan, cycling for Blackpool, and snooker for Wiggleworth" would finally
delete his name from the list. There might even 48 be some muttered comment
upon people who deliberately wasted the committee's time. Here again was a
method which produced good results.

The Chinese method (old pattern) was at one time so extensively copied
by other nations that few people realize its Chinese origin. This is the
method of Competitive Written Examination. In China under the Ming Dynasty
the more promising students used to sit for the provincial examination, held
every third year. It lasted three sessions of three days each. During the
first session the candidate wrote three essays and composed a poem of eight
couplets. During the second session he wrote five essays on a classical
theme. During the third, he wrote five essays on the art of government. The
successful candidates (perhaps two per cent) then sat for their final
examination at the imperial capital. It lasted only one session, the
candidate writing one essay on a current political problem. Of those who
were successfiil the majority were admitted to the civil service, the man
with the highest marks being destined for the highest office. The system
worked fairly well.

The Chinese system was studied by Europeans between 1815 and 1830 and
adopted by the English East India Company in 1832. The effectiveness of this
method was investigated by a committee in 1 854, with Macaulay as chairman.
The result was that the system of competitive examination was introduced
into the British Civil Service in 1855. An essential feature of the Chinese
examinations had been their literary character. The test was in a knowledge
of the classics, in an ability to write elegantly (both prose and verse) and
in the stamina necessary to complete the course. All these features were
faithfully incorporated in 49 the Trevelyan-Northcote Report, and thereafter
in the system it did so much to create. It was assumed that classical
learning and literary ability would fit any candidate for any administrative
post. It was assumed (no doubt rightly) that a scientific education would
fit a candidate for nothing— except, possibly, science. It was known,
finally, that it is virtually impossible to find an order of merit among
people who have been examined in different subjects. Since it is
impracticable to decide whether one man is better in geology than another
man in physics, it is at least convenient to be able to rule them both out
as useless. When all candidates alike have to write Greek or Latin verse, it
is relatively easy to decide which verse is the best. Men thus selected on
their classical performance were then sent forth to govern India. Those with
lower marks were retained to govern England. Those with still lower marks
were rejected altogether or sent to the colonies. While it would be totally
wrong to describe this system as a failure, no one could claim for it the
success that had attended the systems hitherto in use. There was no
guarantee, to begin with, that the man with the highest marks might not turn
out to be off his head; as was sometimes found to be the case. Then again
the writing of Greek verse might prove to be the sole accomplishment that
some candidates had or would ever have. On occasion, a successful applicant
may even have been impersonated at the examination by someone else,
subsequently proving unable to write Greek verse when the occasion arose.

21

Selection by competitive examination was never therefore more than a
moderate success.

Whatever the faults, however, of the competitive written examination,
it certainly produced better results than any 50 method that has been
attempted since. Modern methods center upon the intelligence test and the
psychological interview. The defect in the intelligence test is that high
marks are gained by those who subsequently prove to be practically
illiterate. So much time has been spent in studying the art of being tested
that the candidate has rarely had time for anything else. The psychological
interview has developed today into what is known as ordeal by house party.
The candidates spend a pleasant weekend under expert observation. As one of
them trips over the doormat and says "Bother!" examiners lurking in the
background whip out their notebooks and jot down, "Poor physical
coordination" and "Lacks self-control." There is no need to describe this
method in detail, but its results are all about us and are obviously
deplorable. The persons who satisfy this type of examiner are usually of a
cautious and suspicious temperament, pedantic and smug, saying little and
doing nothing. It is quite common, when appointments are made by this
method, for one man to be chosen from five hundred applicants, only to be
sacked a few weeks later as useless even beyond the standards of his
department. Of the various methods of selection so far tried, the latest is
unquestionably the worst.

What method should be used in the future? A clue to a possible line of
investigation is to be found in one little-publicized aspect of contemporary
selective technique. So rarely does the occasion arise for appointing a
Chinese translator to the Foreign Office or State Department that the method
used is little known. The post is advertised and the applications go, let us
suppose, to a committee of five. Three are civil servants and two are
Chinese scholars 51 of great eminence. Heaped on the table before this
committee are 483 forms of application, with testimonials attached. All the
applicants are Chinese and all without exception have a first degree from
Peking or Amoy and a Doctorate of Philosophy from Cornell or Johns Hopkins.
The majority of the candidates have at one time held ministerial office in
Formosa. Some have attached their photographs. Others have (perhaps wisely)
refrained from doing so. The chairman turns to the leading Chinese expert
and says, "Perhaps Dr. Wu can tell us which of these candidates should be
put on the short list. " Dr. Wu smiles enigmatically and points to the heap.
"None of them any good," he says briefly. "But how— I mean, why not?" asks
the chairman, surprised. "Because no good scholar would ever apply. He would
fear to lose face if he were not chosen." "So what do we do now?" asks the
chairman. "I think," says Dr. Wu, "we might persuade Dr. Lim to take this
post. What do you think. Dr. Lee?" "Yes, I think he might," says Lee, "but
we couldn't approach him ourselves of course. We could ask Dr. Tan whether
he thinks Dr. Lim would be interested." "I don't know Dr. Tan," says Wu,
"but I know his friend Dr. Wong. " By then the chairman is too muddled to
know who is to be approached by whom. But the great thing is that all the
applications are thrown into the waste-paper basket, only one candidate
being considered, and he a man who did not apply.

We do not advise the universal adoption of the modern Chinese method
but we draw from it the useful conclusion that the failure of other methods
is mainly due to there being too many candidates. There are, admittedly,
some initial steps by which the total may be reduced. The 52 formula "Reject
everyone over 50 or under 20 plus everyone called Murphy" is now un iversally
used, and its application will somewhat reduce the list. The names remaining

22

will still, however, be too numerous. To choose between three hundred
people, all well qualified and highly recommended, is not really possible.
We are driven therefore to conclude that the mistake lies in the original
advertisement. It has attracted too many applications. The disadvantage of
this is so little realized that people devise advertisements in terms which
will inevitably attract thousands. A post of responsibility is announced as
vacant, the previous occupant being now in the Senate or the House of Lords.
The salary is large, the pension generous, the duties nominal, the
privileges immense, the perquisites valuable, free residence provided with
official car and unlimited facilities for travel. Candidates should apply,
promptly but carefully, enclosing copies (not originals) of not more than
three recent testimonials. What is the result? A deluge of applications,
many from lunatics and as many again from retired army majors with a gift
(as they always claim) for handling men. There is nothing to do except burn
the lot and start thinking all over again. It would have saved time and
trouble to do some thinking in the first place.

Only a little thought is needed to convince us that the perfect
advertisement would attract only one reply and that from the right man. Let
us begin with an extreme example.

Wanted— Acrobat capable of crossing a slack wire 200 feet above raging
furnace. Twice nightly, three times on Saturday. 53 Salary offered
&sterling;25 (or $70 U.S.) per week. No pension and no compensation in the
event of injury. Apply in person at Wildcat Circus between the hours of 9
A.M. and 10 A.M.

The wording of this may not be perfect but the a/m should be so to
balance the inducement in salary against the possible risks involved that
only a single applicant will appear. It is needless to ask for details of
qualifications and experience. No one unskilled on the slack wire would find
the offer atfractive. It is needless to insist that candidates should be
physically fit, sober, and free from fits of dizziness. They know that. It
is just as needless to stipulate that those nervous of heights need not
apply. They won't. The skill of the advertiser consists in adjusting the
salary to the danger. An offer of &ster ling; 1000 (or $3000 U.S.) per week
might produce a dozen applicants. An offer of &sterling; 15 (or $35 U.S.)
might produce none. Somewhere between those two figures lies the exact sum
to specify, the minimum figure to atfract anyone actually capable of doing
the job. If there is more than one applicant, the figure has been placed a
trifle too high.

Let us now take, for comparison, a less extreme example.

Wanted— An archaeologist with high academic qualifications willing to spend
fifteen years in excavating the Inca tombs at Helsdump on the Alligator
River. Knighthood or equivalent honor guaranteed. Pension payable but never
yet claimed. Salary of &sterling;2000 (or $6000 U.S.) per year. Apply in
triplicate to the Director of the Grubbenburrow Institute, Sickdale, 111.,
U.S.A.

Here the advantages and drawbacks are neatly balanced. There is no need
to insist that candidates must be patient, 54 tough, intrepid, and single.
The terms of the advertisement have eliminated all who are not. It is

23

unnecessary to require that candidates must be mad on excavating tombs. Mad
is just what they will certainly be. Having thus reduced the possible
applicants to a maximum of about three, the terms of the advertisement place
the salary just too low to attract two of them and the promised honor just
high enough to interest the third. We may suppose that, in this case, the
offer of a K.C.M.G. would have produced two applications, the offer of an
O.B.E., none. The result is a single candidate. He is off his head but that
does not matter. He is the man we want.

It may be thought that the world offers comparatively few opportunities
to appoint slack-wire acrobats and tomb excavators, and that the problem is
more often to find candidates for less exotic appointments. This is true,
but the same principles can be applied. Their application demands, however—
as is evident- a greater degree of skill. Let us suppose that the post to
be filled is that of Prime Minister. The modern tendency is to trust in
various methods of election, with results that are almost invariably
disastrous. Were we to turn, instead, to the fairy stories we learned in
childhoo4 we should realize that at the period to which these stories
relate far more satisfactory methods were in use. When the king had to
choose a man to marry his eldest or only daughter and so inherit the
kingdom, he normally planned some obstacle course from which only the right
candidate would emerge with credit; and from which indeed (in many
instances) only the right candidate would emerge at all. For imposing such a
test the kings of that rather vaguely defined period were well provided with
55 both personnel and equipment. Their establishment included magicians,
demons, fairies, vampires, werewolves, giants, and dwarfs. Their territories
were supplied with magic mountains, rivers of fire, hidden freasures, and
enchanted forests. It might be urged that modern governments are in this
respect less fortunate. This, however, is by no means certain. An
adminisfrator able to command the services of psychologists, psychiafrists,
alienists, statisticians, and efficiency experts is not perhaps in a worse
(or better) position than one relying upon hideous crones and fairy
godmothers. An adminisfration equipped with movie cameras, television
apparatus, radio networks, and X-ray machines would not appear to be in a
worse (or better) position than one employing magic wands, crystal balls,
wishing wells, and cloaks of invisibility. Their means of assessment would
seem, at any rate, to be sfrictly comparable. All that is required is to
translate the technique of the fairy story into a form applicable to the
modern world. In this, as we shall see, there is no essential difficulty.
The first step in the process is to decide on the qualities a Prime Minister
ought to have. These need not be the same in all circumstances, but they
need to be listed and agreed upon. Let us suppose that the qualities deemed
essential are (i) Energy, (2) Courage, (3) Patriotism, (4) Experience, (5)
Popularity, and (6) Eloquence. Now, it will be observed that all these are
general-qualities which all possible applicants would believe themselves to
possess. The field could readily, of course, be narrowed by stipulating (4)
Experience of lion-taming, or (6) Eloquence in Mandarin. But that is not the
way in which we want to narrow the field. We do not want to stipulate a
quality in a 56 special form; rather, each quality in an exceptional degree.
In other words, the successful candidate must be the most energetic,
courageous, patriotic, experienced, popular, and eloquent man in the
counfry. Only one man can answer to that description and his is the only
application we want. The terms of the appointment must thus be phrased so as
to exclude everyone else. We should therefore word the advertisement in some
such way as follows:

24

Wanted— Prime Minister of Ruritania. Hours of work: 4 A.M. to 1 1.59 P.M.
Candidates must be prepared to fight three rounds with the current
heavyweight champion (regulation gloves to be worn). Candidates will die for
their country, by painless means, on reaching the age of retirement (65).
They will have to pass an examination in parliamentary procedure and will be
liquidated should they fail to obtain 95% marks. They will also be
liquidated if they fail to gain 75% votes in a popularity poll held under
the Gallup Rules. They will finally be invited to try their eloquence on a
Baptist Congress, the object being to induce those present to rock and roll.
Those who fail will be liquidated. All candidates should present themselves
at the Sporting Club (side entrance) at 11.15 A.M. onthe morning of
September 19. Gloves will be provided, but they should bring their own
rubber-soled shoes, singlet, and shorts.

Observe that this advertisement saves all trouble about application
forms, testimonials, photographs, references, and short lists. If the
advertisement has been correctly worded, there will be only one apphcant,
and he can take office immediately— well, almost immediately. But what if
there is no applicant? That is proof that the advertisement 57 needs
rewording. We have evidently asked for something more than exists. So the
same advertisement (which is, after all, quite economical in space) can be
inserted again with some slight adjustment. The pass mark in the examination
can be reduced to 85 per cent with 65 per cent of the votes required in the
popularity poll, and only two rounds against the heavyweight. Conditions can
be successively relaxed, indeed, until an applicant appears.

Suppose, however, that two or even three candidates present themselves.
We shall know that we have been insufficiently scientific. It may be that
the pass mark in the examination has been too abruptly lowered— it should
have been 87 per cent, perhaps, with 66 per cent in the popularity poll.
Whatever the cause, the damage has been done. Two, or possibly three,
candidates are in the waiting room. We have a choice to make and cannot
waste all the morning on it. One policy would be to start the ordeal and
eliminate the candidates who emerge with least credit. There is,
nevertheless, a quicker way. Let us assume that all three candidates have
all the qualities already defined as essential. The only thing we need do is
add one further quality and apply the simplest test of all. To do this, we
ask the nearest young lady (receptionist or stenographer, as the case may
be), "Which would you prefer?" She will promptly point out one of the
candidates and so finish the matter. It has been objected that this
procedure is the same thing as tossing a coin or otherwise letting chance
decide. There is, in fact, no element of chance. It is merely the
last-minute insistence on one other quality, one not so far taken into
account: the quality of sex appeal. 58

6. PLANS AND PLANTS, OR THE ADMINISTRATION BLOCK

25

EVERY STUDENT of human institutions is familiar with the standard test
by which the importance of the individual may be assessed. The number of
doors to be passed, the number of his personal assistants, the number of his
telephone receivers— these three figures, taken with the depth of his
carpet in centimeters, have given us a simple formula that is reliable for
most parts of the world. It is less widely known that the same sort of
measurement is applicable, but in reverse, to the institution itself

Take, for example, a publishing organization. Publishers have a strong
tendency, as we know, to live in a state of chaotic squalor. The visitor who
applies at the obvious entrance is led outside and around the block, down an
alley and up three flights of stairs. A research establishment is similarly
housed, as a rule, on the ground floor of what was once a private house, a
crazy wooden corridor leading thence to a corrugated iron hut in what was
once the garden. Are we not all familiar, moreover, with the layout of an
international airport? As we emerge from the aircraft, we see (over to our
right or left) a lofty structure wrapped in scaffolding. Then the air
hostess leads us into 59 a hut with an asbestos roof Nor do we suppose for
a moment that it will ever be otherwise. By the time the permanent building
is complete the airfield will have been moved to another site.

The institutions already mentioned— lively and productive as they may
be— flourish in such shabby and makeshift surroundings that we might turn
with relief to an institution clothed from the outset with convenience and
dignity. The outer door, in bronze and glass, is placed centrally in a
symmetrical facade. Polished shoes glide quietly over shining rubber to the
glittering and silent elevator. The overpoweringly cultured receptionist
will murmer with carmine lips into an ice-blue receiver. She will wave you
into a chromium armchair, consoling you with a dazzling smile for any slight
but inevitable delay. Looking up from a glossy magazine, you will observe
how the wide corridors radiate toward departments A, B, and C. From behind
closed doors will come the subdued noise of an ordered activity. A minute
later and you are ankle deep in the director's carpet, plodding sturdily
toward his distant, tidy desk. Hypnotized by the chiefs unwavering stare,
cowed by the Matisse hung upon his waU, you will feel that you have found
real efficiency at last.

In point of fact you will have discovered nothing of the kind. It is
now known that a perfection of planned layout is achieved only by
institutions on the point of collapse. This apparently paradoxical
conclusion is based upon a wealth of archaeological and historical research,
with the more esoteric details of which we need not concern ourselves. In
general principle, however, the method pursued has been to select and date
the buildings which appear 60 to have been perfectly designed for their
purpose. A study and comparison of these has tended to prove that perfection
of planning is a symptom of decay. During a period of exciting discovery or
progress there is no time to plan the perfect headquarters. The time for
that comes later, when all the important work has been done. Perfection, we
know, is finality; and finality is death.

Thus, to the casual tourist, awesfruck in front of St. Peter's, Rome,
the Basilica and the Vatican must seem the ideal setting for the Papal
Monarchy at the very height of its prestige and power. Here, he reflects,
must Innocent III have thundered his anathema. Here must Gregory VII have
laid down the law. But a glance at the guidebook will convince the fraveler
that the really powerful Popes reigned long before the present dome was
raised, and reigned not infrequently somewhere else. More than that, the
later Popes lost half their authority while the work was still in progress.

26

Julius n, whose decision it was to build, and Leo X, who approved Raphael's
design, were dead long before the buildings assumed their present shape.
Bramante's palace was still building until 1565, the great church not
consecrated until 1626, nor the piazza colonnades finished until 1667. The
great days of the Papacy were over before the perfect setting was even
planned. They were almost forgotten by the date of its completion.

That this sequence of events is in no way exceptional can be proved
with ease. Just such a sequence can be found in the history of the League of
Nations. Great hopes centered on the League from its inception in 1920 until
about 1930. By 1933, at the latest, the experiment was seen to have failed.
Its physical embodiment, however, the Palace 61 62 of the Nations, was not
opened until 1937. It was a structure no doubt justly admired. Deep thought
had gone into the design of secretariat and council chambers, committee
rooms and cafeteria. Everything was there which ingenuity could devise-
except, indeed, the League itself By the year when its Palace was formally
opened the League had practically ceased to exist.

It might be urged that the Palace of Versailles is an instance of
something quite opposite; the architectural embodiment of Louis XIV's
monarchy at its height. But here again the facts refuse to fit the theory.
For granted that Versailles may typify the triumphant spirit of the age, it
was mostly completed very late in the reign, and some of it indeed during
the reign that followed. The building of Versailles mainly took place
between 1669 and 1685. The king did not move there until 1682, and even then
the work was still in progress. The famous royal bedroom was not occupied
until 1701, nor the chapel finished until nine years later. Considered as a
seat of government, as apart Irom a royal residence, Versailles dates in
part from as late as 1756. As against that, Louis XIV's real triumphs were
mostly before 1679, the apex of his career reached in 1682 itself and his
power declining from about 1685. According to one historian, Louis, in
coming to Versailles "was already sealing the doom of his line and race."
Another says of Versailles that "The whole thing... was completed just when
the decline of Louis's power had begun." A third tacitly supports this
theory by describing the period 1685-1713 as "The Years of Decline." In
other words, the visitor who thinks Versailles the place from which Turenne
rode forth to victory is essentially mistaken. It 63 would be historically
more correct to picture the embarrassment, in that setting, of those who
came with the news of defeat at Blenheim. In a palace resplendent with
emblems of victory they can hardly have known which way to look.

Mention of Blenheim must naturally call to mind the palace of that name
built for the victorious Duke of Marlborough. Here again we have a building
ideally planned, this time as the place of retirement for a national hero.
Its heroic proportions are more dramatic perhaps than convenient, but the
general effect is just what the architects intended. No scene could more
fittingly enshrine a legend. No setting could have been more appropriate for
the meeting of old comrades on the anniversary of a battle. Our pleasure,
however, in picturing the scene is spoiled by our realization that it cannot
have taken place. The Duke never lived there and never even saw it finished.
His actual residence was at Holjwell, near St. Alban's, and (when in town)
at Marlborough House. He died at Windsor Lodge and his old comrades, when
they held a reunion, are known to have dined in a tent. Blenheim took long
in building, not because of the elaboration of the design— which was

27

admittedly quite elaborate enough— but because the Duke was in disgrace and
even, for two years, in exile during the period which might otherwise have
witnessed its completion.

What of the monarchy which the Duke of Marlborough served? Just as
tourists now wander, guidebook in hand, through the Orangerie or the Galerie
des Glaces, so the future archaeologist may peer around what once was
London. And he may well incline to see in the ruins of Buckingham Palace a
true expression of British monarchy. He 64 will trace the great avenue from
Admiralty Arch to the palace gate. He will reconstruct the forecourt and the
central balcony, thinking all the time how suitable it must have been for a
powerful ruler whose sway extended to the remote parts of the world. Even a
present-day American might be tempted to shake his head over the arrogance
of a George III, enthroned in such impressive state as this. But again we
find that the really powerful monarchs all lived somewhere else, in
buildings long since vanished— at Greenwich or Nonesuch, Kenilworth or
Whitehall. The builder of Buckingham Palace was George IV, whose court
architect, John Nash, was responsible for what was described at the time as
its "general feebleness and triviality of taste." But George IV himself, who
lived at Carlton House or Brighton, never saw the finished work; nor did
William IV, who ordered its completion. It was Queen Victoria who first took
up residence there in 1837, being married from the new palace in 1840. But
her first enthusiasm for Buckingham Palace was relatively short-lived. Her
husband infinitely preferred Windsor and her own later preference was for
Balmoral or Osborne. The splendors of Buckingham Palace are therefore to be
associated, if we are to be accurate, with a later and strictly
constitutional monarchy. It dates from a period when power was vested in
Parliament.

It is natural, therefore, to ask at this point whether the Palace of
Westminster, where the House of Commons meets, is itself a true expression
of parliamentary rule. It represents beyond question a magnificent piece of
planning, aptly designed for debate and yet provided with ample space for
everything else— for committee meetings, for 65 quiet study, for
refreshment, and (on its terrace) for tea. It has everything a legislator
could possibly desire, all incorporated in a building of immense dignity and
comfort. It should date— but this we now hardly dare assume— from a period
when parUamentary rule was at its height. But once again the dates refuse
to fit into this pattern. The original House, where Pitt and Fox were
matched in oratory, was accidentally desfroyed by fire in 1834. It would
appear to have been as famed for its inconvenience as for its lofty standard
of debate. The present structure was begun in 1840, partly occupied in 1852,
but incomplete when its architect died in 1 860. It finally assumed its
present appearance in about 1868. Now, by what we can no longer regard as
coincidence, the decline of Parliament can be fraced, without much dispute,
to the Reform Act of 1 867. It was in the following year that all initiative
in legislation passed from Parliament to be vested in the Cabinet. The
prestige attached to the letters "M.P." began sharply to decline and
thenceforward the most that could be said is that "a role, though a humble
one, was left for private members. " The great days were over.

The same could not be said of the various Ministries, which were to
gain importance in proportion to Parliament's decline. Investigation may yet
serve to reveal that the India Office reached its peak of efficiency when
accommodated in the Westminster Palace Hotel. What is more significant,
however, is the recent development of the Colonial Office. For while the
British Empire was mostly acquired at a period when the Colonial Office (in

28

so far as there was one) occupied haphazard premises in Downing Street, a
new phase of colonial policy began when the department moved 66 into
buildings actually designed for the purpose. This was in 1875 and the
structure was well designed as a background for the disasters of the Boer
War. But the Colonial Office gained a new lease of life during World War II.
With its move to temporary and highly inconvenient premises in Great Smith
Street— premises leased from the Chiirch of England and intended for an
entirely different purpose— British colonial policy entered that phase of
enlightened activity which will end no doubt with the completion of the new
building planned on the site of the old Westminster Hospital. It is
reassuring to know that work on this site has not even begun.

But no other British example can now match in significance the story of
New Delhi. Nowhere else have British architects been given the task of
planning so great a capital city as the seat of government for so vast a
population. The intention to found New Delhi was announced at the Imperial
Durbar of 1911, King George V being at that time the Mogul's successor on
what had been the Peacock Throne. Sir Edwin Lutyens then proceeded to draw
up plans for a British Versailles, splendid in conception, comprehensive in
detail, masterly in design, and overpowering in scale. But the stages of its
progress toward completion correspond with so many steps in political
collapse. The Government of India Act of 1909 had been the prelude to all
that followed— the attempt on the Viceroy's life in 1912, the Declaration
of 1917, the Montagu-Chelmsford Report of 1918 audits implementation in
1920. Lord Irwin actually moved into his new palace in 1929, the year in
which the Indian Congress demanded independence, the year in which the Round
Table Conference opened, the 67 year before the Civil Disobedience campaign
began. It would be possible, though tedious, to trace the whole story down
to the day when the British finally withdrew, showing how each phase of the
refreatwas exactly paralleled with the completion of another triumph in
civic design. What was finally achieved was no more and no less than a
mausoleum.

The decline of British imperialism actually began with the general
election of 1906 and the victory on that occasion of liberal and
semi-socialist ideas. It need surprise no one, therefore, to observe that
1906 is the date of completion carved in imperishable granite over the
British War Office doors. The campaign of Waterloo might have been directed
from poky offices around the Horse Guards Parade. It was, by contrast, in
surroundings of dignity that were approved the plans for attacking the
Dardanelles.

The elaborate layout of the Pentagon at Arlington, Virginia, provides
another significant lesson for planners. It was not completed until the
later stages of World War II and, of course, the architecture of the great
victory was not constructed here, but in the crowded and untidy Munitions
Building on Constitution Avenue.

Even today, as the least observant visitor to Washington can see, the
most monumental edifices are found to house such derelict organizations as
the Departments of Commerce and Labor, while the more active agencies occupy
half-completed quarters. Indeed, much of the more urgent business of
government goes forward in "temporary" structures erected during World War
I, and shrewdly preserved for their stimulating effect on adminisfration.
Hard by the Capitol, the visitor will also observe the imposing
marble-and-glass 68 headquarters of the Teamsters' Union, completed not a
moment too soon before the heavy hand of Congressional investigation
descended on its occupants.

29

It is by no means certain that an influential reader of this chapter
could prolong the life of a dying institution merely by depriving it of its
streamlined headquarters. What he can do, however, with more confidence, is
to prevent any organization strangling itself at birth. Examples abound of
new institutions coming into existence with a full establishment of deputy
directors, consultants and executives; all these coming together in a
building specially designed for their purpose. And experience proves that
such an institution will die. It is choked by its own perfection. It cannot
take root for lack of soil. It cannot grow naturally for it is already
grown. Fruitless by its very nature, it cannot even flower. When we see an
example of such planning— when we are confronted for example by the
building designed for the United Nations— the experts among us shake their
heads sadly, draw a sheet over the corpse, and tiptoe quietly into the open
air. 69

7. PERSONALITY SCREEN, OR THE COCKTAIL FORMULA

ESSENTIAL TO the technique of modern life is the Cocktail Party. Upon
this institution hinges the international, the learned, and the indusfrial
congress. Without at least one cocktail party these gatherings are known to
be impossible. So far there has been too little scientific study of their
function and possible use. The time has come to give this subject some
careful thought. In planning a cocktail party what, exactly, do we hope to
achieve?

This question can be answered in various ways, and it soon becomes
evident that the same party can serve a variety of purposes. Let us take one
possible object at random and see how it could be attained more completely
and quickly by the application of scientific method. Take, for example, the
problem of discovering the relative importance of the people there. We may
assume that their official status and seniority is already known. But what
of their actual importance in relation to the work being done? It often
happens that the key men and women are not those of highest official
standing. That these others are influential will be apparent by the end of
the conference. How much more useful if we could have assessed their
importance 70 at the beginning! It is in this assessment that a cocktail
party, held on the second day of the congress, may give invaluable aid.

For the purposes of the investigation it will be assumed that the space
in which the party is to be held is all on one level and that there is only
one formal entrance. It will be assumed, further, that the whole affair is
to last two hours according to the invitation cards but two hours and twenty
minutes in actual fact. It will be assumed, finally, that the drinks
circulate freely throughout the area with which we have to deal; for a bar
in visible operation would alter the nature of the problem. Given these
assumptions, how are we to assess the real as opposed to the theoretical
importance of the guests present?

The first known fact upon which we can base our theory is the direction
of the human current. We know that the guests on arrival will drift
automatically toward the left side of the reception floor. This leftward set

30

of the tide has an interesting and partly biological explanation. The heart
is (or to be exact, appears to be) on the left side of the body. In the more
primitive form of warfare some form of shield is therefore used to protect
the left side, leaving the offensive weapon to be held in the right hand.
The normal offensive weapon was the sword, worn in a scabbard or sheath. If
the sword was to be wielded in the right hand, the scabbard would have to be
worn on the left side. With a scabbard worn on the left, it became
physically impossible to mount a horse on the off side unless intending to
face the tail— which was not the normal practice. But if you mount on the
near side, you will want to have your horse on the left of the road, so that
you are clear of the 71 traffic while mounting. It therefore becomes natural
and proper to keep to the left, the contrary practice (as adopted in some
backward countries) being totally opposed to all the deepest historical
instincts. Free of arbitrary traffic rules the normal human being swings to
the left.

The second known fact is that people prefer the side of the room to the
middle. This is obvious from the way a restaurant fills up. The tables along
the left wall are occupied first, then those at the far end, then those
along the right wall, and finally (and with reluctance) those in the middle.
Such is the human revulsion to the central space that managements often
despair of filling it and so create what is termed a dance floor. It will be
realized that this behavior pattern could be upset by some extraneous
factor, like a view of the waterfall from the end windows. If we exclude
cathedrals and glaciers, the restaurant will fill up on the lines indicated,
from left to right. Reluctance to occupy the central space derives from
prehistoric instincts. The caveman who entered someone else's cave was
doubtful of his reception and wanted to be able to have his back to the wall
and yet with some room to maneuver. In the center of the cave he felt too
vulnerable. He therefore sidled round the walls of the cave, grunting and
fingering his club. Modern man is seen to do much the same thing, muttering
to himself and fingering his club tie. The basic trend of movement at a
cocktail party is the same as in a restaiirant. The tendency is toward the
sides of the space, but not actually reaching the wall.

If we combine these two known facts, the leftward drift and the
tendency to avoid the center, we have the biological explanation of the
phenomenon we have all observed 72 in practice: that is the clockwise flow
of the human movement. There may be local eddies and swirls— women will
swerve to avoid people they detest, or rush crying "Darling!" toward people
they detest even more-- but the general set of the tide runs inexorably
round the room. People who matter, people who are literally "in the swim,"
keep to the channel where the tide runs strongly. They move with the general
movement and at very much the average speed. Those who appear to be glued to
the walls, usually deep in conversation with people they meet every week,
are nobodies. Those who jam themselves in the corners of the room are the
timid and feeble. Those who drift into the center are the eccenfric and
merely silly.

What we have next to study is the time at which people arrive. Now we
can safely assume that the people who matter will arrive at the time they
consider favorable. They will not be among those who have overestimated the
length of their journey and so arrive ten minutes before the party is due to
begin. They will not be among those whose watches have stopped and who rush
in, panting, when the party is nearly over. No, the people we want to
identify will choose their moment. What moment will it be? It will clearly
be a time fixed by two major considerations. They will not want to make an

31

entrance before there are sufficient people there to observe their arrival.
But neither will they want to arrive after other important people have gone
on (as they always do) to another party. Their arrival will therefore be at
least half an hour after the party begins and at least an hour before it is
due to end. That gives us a bracket, suggesting the formula that the optimum
arrival time will be exactly three-quarters of an hour after the time given
on 73 the invitation card: 7.15, for example, if the party is supposed to
start at 6.30. The temptation at this point is to conclude that the
discovery of the optimum arrival time is the solution to the whole problem.
Some students might say, "Never mind what happens afterwards. Observe the
door with a stop watch and you have the answer." The more experienced
investigator will treat that suggestion with gentle derision. For who is to
know that the person arriving at 7. 15 precisely was aiming to do just that?
Some may arrive at that time because they meant to be there at 6.30 but
could not find the place. Others may arrive at that hour thinking that the
time is later than it is. A few might turn up then without even being
invited— guests expected somewhere else and on another day. So, although
safely concluding that the people who matter should arrive between 7. 10 and
7.20, we would be entirely wrong to regard as important all who appear at
about that time.

It is at this stage in the research project that we need to test and
complete our theory by experimental means. Fully to understand the social
current, we should resort to the technique used in a hydraulic laboratory.
In such an establishment the scientist who wants to ascertain how water will
flow round a bridge pier of a certain shape will add cochineal to the water
which he sets flowing over a sheet of glass. On the glass he places his
model pier. Then from above he photographs the pattern made by the color
streaks in the water. What we should like to do would be to mark the people
of known importance at a cocktail party— stain them, as it were, with
cochineal— and photograph their progress from a gallery. It may be supposed
that there are difficulties about pursuing an investigation on these lines.
74 Luckily, however, information came to hand about a certain British Colony
where the "staining" of some specimens had already been done.

What had happened was that a former Governor, perhaps a century ago,
tried to persuade the respectable male population to wear black evening
dress instead of white. His persuasion and example failed completely so far
as the merchants, bankers and lawyers were concerned but he was necessarily
obeyed by the civil servants, who had no option in the matter. The result
was that a tradition grew up and has been observed to this day. High
government officers wear black and everyone else wears white. Now, as the
officials are still important in this particular society, it was easy for
investigators to follow their movement irom a gallery. It was possible,
moreover, to photograph their movement pattern on different occasions,
confirming the theories so far described and leading us to the final
discovery which we are now in a position to disclose. Careful observations
prove4 beyond a shadow of doubt, that the black coats arrived at some time
between 7. 10 and 7.20; that they circled left and so proceeded around the
floor; that they avoided the corners and the walls; and that they shunned
the middle. So far their behavior closely conformed to our theory. But we
now noted a further and unexpected phenomenon. Having reached a point near
the far right corner of the room— which they did in half an hour— they
lingered in the same area for ten minutes or more. They then tended to leave
rather abruptly. It was only after long and careful study of the films taken
that we realized what this behavior meant. The pause, we finally concluded.

32

was to allow the other important people to 75 catch up, those who had
arrived at 7.10 waiting for those who had arrived at 7.20. The actual
foregathering of the important people did not take long. They each merely
wanted to be seen by the others, as proof that they were there. This done,
the withdrawal began and was, in every instance, complete by 8. 15.

What we learned by observation in this one society is now believed to
be applicable to any other; and the formula is easy to apply. To find the
people who really matter, divide the whole floor area (mentally) into
squares. Letter these from left to right, as you enter, as A, B, C, D, E,
and F. Number the squares trom the entrance to the far end as 1 to 8. The
hour at which the party begins should be termed H. The moment when the last
guest leaves will be approximately two hours and twenty minutes after the
first people arrive. We shall call this H +140. To find the people who
really matter is now perfectly simple. They are the people grouped in square
E/7 between H + 75 and H + 90. The most important person of all will be in
the very center of the group.

Students will realize that the validity of this rule must depend upon
its not being generally known. The contents of this chapter should therefore
be treated as confidential and kept strictly under lock and key. Students of
social science must keep this information to themselves and members of the
general public are not on any account to read it. 76

77

8. INJELITITIS, OR PALSIED PARALYSIS

WE FIND everywhere a type of organization (administrative, commercial,
or academic) in which the higher officials are plodding and dull, those less
senior are active only in intrigue against each other, and the junior men
are frustrated or frivolous. Little is being attempted. Nothing is being
achieved. And in contemplating this sorry picture, we conclude that those in
control have done their best, struggled against adversity, and have finally
admitted defeat. It now appears from the results of recent investigation,
that no such failure need be assumed. In a high percentage of the moribund
institutions so far examined the final state of coma is something gained of
set purpose and after prolonged effort. It is the result, admittedly, of a
disease, but of a disease that is largely self-induced. From the first signs
of the condition, the progress of the disease has been encouraged, the
causes aggravated, and the symptoms welcomed. It is the disease of induced
inferiority, called Injelititis. It is a commoner ailment than is often
supposed, and the diagnosis is far easier than the cure.

Our study of this organizational paralysis begins, logically, with a
description of the course of the disease from the 78 first signs to the
final coma. The second stage of our inquiry concerns symptoms and diagnosis.
The third stage should properly include some reference to treatment, but
little is known about this. Nor is much likely to be discovered in the

33

immediate future, for the tradition of British medical research is entirely
opposed to any emphasis on this part of the subject. British medical
specialists are usually quite content to trace the symptoms and define the
cause. It is the French, by contrast, who begin by describing the treatment
and discuss the diagnosis later, if at all. We feel bound to adhere in this
to the British method, which may not help the patient but which is
unquestionably more scientific. To travel hopefully is better than to
arrive.

The first sign of danger is represented by the appearance in the
organization's hierarchy of an individual who combines in himself a high
concentration of incompetence and jealousy. Neither quality is significant
in itself and most people have a certain proportion of each. But when these
two qualities reach a certain concentration— represented at present by the
formula ff— there is a chemical reaction. The two

elements fiase, producing a new substance that we have termed "injelitance."
The presence of this substance can be safely inferred from the actions of
any individual who, having failed to make anything of his own department,
tries constantly to interfere with other departments and gain control of the
central administration. The specialist who observes this particular mixture
of failure and ambition will at once shake his head and murmur, "Primary or
idiopathic injelitance." The symptoms, as we shall see, are quite
unmistakable. 79

The next or secondary stage in the progress of the disease is reached
when the infected individual gains complete or partial control of the
central organization. In many instances this stage is reached without any
period of primary infection, the individual having actually entered the
organization at that level. The injelitant individual is easily recognizable
at this stage from the persistence with which he struggles to eject all
those abler than himself, as also from his resistance to the appointment or
promotion of 80 anyone who might prove abler in course of time. He dare not
say, "Mr. Asterisk is too able," so he says, "Asterisk? Clever perhaps— but
is he sound? I incline to prefer Mr. Cypher." He dare not say, "Mr. Asterisk
makes me feel small," so he says, "Mr. Cypher appears to me to have the
better judgment. " Judgment is an interesting word that signifies in this
context the opposite of intelligence; it means, in fact, doing what was done
last time. So Mr. Cypher is promoted and Mr. Asterisk goes elsewhere. The
central adminisfration gradually fills up with people stupider than the
chairman, director, or manager. If the head of the organization is
second-rate, he will see to it that his immediate staff are all third-rate;
and they will, in turn, see to it that their subordinates are fourth-rate.
There will soon be an actual competition in stupidity, people pretending to
be even more brainless than they are.

The next or tertiary stage in the onset of this disease is reached when
there is no spark of intelligence left in the whole organization from top to
bottom. This is the state of coma we described in our first paragraph. When
that stage has been reached the institution is, for all practical purposes,
dead. It may remain in a coma for twenty years. It may quietly disintegrate.
It may even, finally, recover. Cases of recovery are rare. It may be thought
odd that recovery without treatment should be possible. The process is quite
natural, nevertheless, and closely resembles the process by which various
living organisms develop a resistance to poisons that are at first encounter

34

fatal. It is as if the whole institution had been sprayed with a DDT
solution guaranteed to eliminate all ability found in its way. For a period
of years this practice achieves the desired result. 81 Eventually, however,
individuals develop an immunity. They conceal their ability under a mask of
imbecile good humor. The result is that the operatives assigned to the task
of ability-elimination fail (through stupidity) to recognize ability when
they see it. An individual of merit penetrates the outer defenses and begins
to make his way toward the top. He wanders on, babbling about golf and
giggling feebly, losing documents and forgetting names, and looking just
like everyone else. Only when he has reached high rank does he suddenly
throw off the mask and appear like the demon king among a crowd of pantomime
fairies. With shrill screams of dismay the high executives find ability
right there in the midst ofthem. Itis too late by then to do anything
about it. The damage has been done, the disease is in retreat, and fuU
recovery is possible over the next ten years. But these instances of natural
cure are extremely rare. In the more usual course of events, the disease
passes through the recognized stages and becomes, as it would seem,
incurable.

We have seen what the disease is. It now remains to show by what
symptoms its presence can be detected. It is one thing to detail the spread
of the infection in an imaginary case, classified from the start. It is
quite a different thing to enter a factory, barracks, office, or college and
recognize the symptoms at a glance. We all know how an estate agent will
wander round a vacant house when acting for the purchaser. It is only a
question of time before he throws open a cupboard or kicks a baseboard and
exclaims, "Dry rot!" (acting for the vendor, he would lose the key of the
cupboard while drawing attention to the view from the window). In the same
way a political scientist can 82 recognize the symptoms of Injelititis even
in its primary stage. He will pause, sniff, and nod wisely, and it should be
obvious at once that he knows. But how does he know? How can he tell that
injelitance has set in? If the original source of the infection were
present, the diagnosis would be easier, but it is still quite possible when
the germ of the disease is on holiday. His influence can be detected in the
atmosphere. It can be detected, above all, in certain remarks that will be
made by others, as thus: "It would be a mistake for us to attempt too much.
We cannot compete with Toprank. Here in Lowgrade we do useful work, meeting
the needs of the country. Let us be content with that." Or again, "We do not
pretend to be in the first flight. It is absurd the way these people at
Much-Striving talk of their work, just as if they were in the Toprank
class." Or finally, "Some of our younger men have transferred to Toprank—
one or two even to Much- Striving. It is probably their wisest plan. We are
quite happy to let them succeed in that way. An exchange of ideas and
personnel is a good thing— although, to be sure, the few men we have had
from Toprank have been rather disappointing. We can only expect the people
they have thrown out. Ah well, we must not grumble. We always avoid friction
when we can. And, in our humble way we can claim to be doing a good job."

What do these remarks suggest? They suggest— or, rather, they clearly
indicate— that the standard of achievement has been set too low. Only a low
standard is desired and one still lower is acceptable. The directives
issuing from a second-rate chief and addressed to his third-rate executives
speak only of minimum aims and ineffectual means. A higher standard of
competence is not desired, for an 83 efficient organization would be beyond
the chiefs power to control. The motto, "Ever third-rate" has been
inscribed over the main entrance in letters of gold. Third-rateness has

35

become a principle of policy. It will be observed, however, that the
existence of higher standards is still recognized. There remains at this
primary stage a hint of apology, a feeling of uneasiness when Toprank is
mentioned. Neither this apology nor unease lasts for long. The second stage
of the disease comes on quickly and it is this we must now describe.

The secondary stage is recognized by its chief symptom, which is
Smugness. The aims have been set low and have therefore been largely
achieved. The target has been set up within ten yards of the firing point
and the scoring has therefore been high. The directors have done what they
set out to do. This soon fills them with self-satisfaction. They set out to
do something and they have done it. They soon forget that it was a small
effort to gain a small result. They observe only that they have succeeded—
unlike those people at Much-Striving. They become increasingly smug and
their smugness reveals itself in remarks such as this: "The chief is a sound
man and very clever when you get to know him. He never says much— that is
not his way— but he seldom makes a mistake." (These last words can be said
with justice of someone who never does anything at all.) Or this: "We rather
distrust brilliance here. These clever people can be a dreadful nuisance,
upsetting established routine and proposing all sorts of schemes that we
have never seen tried. We obtain splendid results by simple common sense and
teamwork." And finally this: "Our canteen is something we are really rather
proud of. We don't 84 know how the caterer can produce so good a lunch at
the price. We are lucky to have him!" This last remark is made as we sit at
a table covered with dirty oilcloth, facing an uneatable, nameless mess on a
plate and shuddering at the sight and smell of what passes for coffee. In
point of fact, the canteen reveals more than the office. Just as for a quick
verdict we judge a private house by inspection of the WC (to find whether
there is a spare toilet roll), just as we judge a hotel by the state of the
cruet, so we judge a larger institution by the appearance of the canteen. If
the decoration is in dark brown and pale green; if the curtains are purple
(or absent); if there are no flowers in sight; if there is barley in the
soup (with or without a dead fly); if the menu is one of hash and mold; and
if the executives are still delighted with everj^hing— why, then the
institution is in a pretty bad way. For self-satisfaction, in such a case,
has reached the point at which those responsible cannot tell the difference
between food and filth. This is smugness made absolute.

The tertiary and last stage of the disease is one in which apathy has
taken the place of smugness. The executives no longer boast of their
efficiency as compared with some other institution. They have forgotten that
any other institution exists. They have ceased to eat in the canteen,
preferring now to bring sandwiches and scatter their desks with the crumbs.
The bulletin boards carry notices about the concert that took place four
years ago, Mr. Brown's office has a nameplate saying, "Mr. Smith." Mr.
Smith's door is marked, "Mr. Robinson," in faded ink on an adhesive luggage
label. The broken windows have been repaired with odd bits of cardboard. The
electric light switches give a 85 slight but painful shock when touched. The
whitewash is flaking off the ceiling and the paint is blotchy on the walls.
The elevator is out of order and the cloakroom tap cannot be turned off
Water fi-om the broken skylight drips wide of the bucket placed to catch it,
and fi-om somewhere in the basement comes the wail of a hungry cat. The last
stage of the disease has brought the whole organization to the point of
collapse. The symptoms of the disease in this acute form are so numerous and
evident that a trained investigator can often detect them over the telephone
without visiting the place at all. When a weary voice answers "Ullo!" (that

36

most unhelpful of replies), the expert has often heard enough. He shakes his
head sadly as he replaces the receiver. "Well on in the tertiary phase," he
will mutter to himself, "and almost certainly inoperable." It is too late to
attempt any sort of treatment. The institution is practically dead.

We have now described this disease as seen from within and then again
from outside. We know now the origin, the progress, and the outcome of the
infection, as also the symptoms by which its presence is detected. British
medical skill seldom goes beyond that point in its research. Once a disease
has been identified, named, described, and accounted for, the British are
usually quite satisfied and ready to investigate the next problem that
presents itself If asked about freatment they look surprised and suggest
the use of penicillin preceded or followed by the extraction of all the
patient's teeth. It becomes clear at once that this is not an aspect of the
subject that interests them. Should our attitude be the same? Or should we
as political scientists consider what, if anything, can be done about it? It
86 would be premature, no doubt, to discuss any possible treatment in
detail, but it might be useful to indicate very generally the hnes along
which a solution might be attempted. Certain principles, at least, might be
laid down. Of such principles, the first would have to be this: a diseased
institution cannot reform itself There are instances, we know, of a disease
vanishing without treatment, just as it appeared without warning; but these
cases are rare and regarded by the specialist as irregular and undesirable.
The cure, whatever its nature, must come from outside. For a patient to
remove his own appendix under a local anaesthetic may be physically
possible, but the practice is regarded with disfavor and is open to many
objections. Other operations lend themselves still less to the patient's own
dexterity. The first principle we can safely enunciate is that the patient
and the surgeon should not be the same person. When an institution is in an
advanced state of disease, the services of a specialist are required and
even, in some instances, the services of the greatest living authority:
Parkinson himself The fees payable may be very heavy indeed, but in a case
of this sort, expense is clearly no object. It is a matter, after all, of
life and death.

The second principle we might lay down is this, that the primary stage
of the disease can be treated by a simple injection, that the secondary
stage can be cured in some instances by surgery, and that the tertiary stage
must be regarded at present as incurable. There was a time when physicians
used to babble about bottles and pills, but this is mainly out of date.
There was another period when they talked more vaguely about psychology; but
that too is out of date, most of the psychoanalysts having since been
certified 87 as insane. The present age is one of injections and incisions
and it behooves the political scientists to keep in step with the Faculty.
Confronted by a case of primary infection, we prepare a syringe
automatically and only hesitate as to what, besides water, it should
contain. In principle, the injection should contain some active substance—
but from which group should it be selected? A kill-or-cure injection would
contain a high proportion of Intolerance, but this drug is difficult to
procure and sometimes too powerful to use. Intolerance is obtainable from
the bloodstream of regimental sergeant majors and is found to comprise two
chemical elements, namely: (a) the best is scarcely good enough
(GG"*) and (b) there is no excuse for anything
(NE"*). Injected into a diseased institution, the intolerant
individual has a tonic effect and may cause the organism to turn against the
original source of infection. While this freatment may well do good, it is

37

by no means certain that the cure will be permanent. It is doubtful, that is
to say, whether the infected substance will be actually expelled from the
system. Such information as we have rather leads us to suppose that this
treatment is merely palliative in the first instance, the disease remaining
latent though inactive. Some authorities believe that repeated injections
would result in a complete cure, but others fear that repetition of the
treatment would set up a fresh irritation, only slightly less dangerous than
the original disease. Intolerance is a drug to be used, therefore, with
caution.

There exists a rather milder drug called Ridicule, but its operation is
uncertain, its character unstable, and its effects too little known. There
is little reason to fear that any 88 damage could result from an injection
of ridicule, but neither is it evident that a cure would result. It is
generally agreed that the injelitant individual will have developed a thick
protective skin, insensitive to ridicule. It may well be that ridicule may
tend to isolate the infection, but that is as much as could be expected and
more indeed than has been claimed.

We may note, finally, that Castigation, which is easily obtainable, has
been tried in cases of this sort and not wholly without effect. Here again,
however, there are difficulties. This drug is an immediate stimulus but can
produce a result the exact opposite of what the specialist intends. After a
momentary spasm of activity, the injelitant individual will often prove more
supine than before and just as harmful as a source of infection. If any use
can be made of castigation it will almost certainly be as one element in a
preparation composed otherwise of intolerance and ridicule, with perhaps
other drugs as yet untried. It only remains to point out that this
preparation does not as yet exist.

The secondary stage of the disease we believe to be operable.
Professional readers will all have heard of the Nuciform Sack and of the
work generally associated with the name of Cutler Walpole. The operation
first performed by that great surgeon involves, simply, the removal of the
infected parts and the simultaneous introduction of new blood drawn from a
similar organism. This operation has sometimes succeeded. It is only fair to
add that it has also sometimes failed. The shock to the system can be too
great. The new blood may be unobtainable and may fail, even when procured,
to mingle with the blood previously in 89 circulation. On the other hand,
this drastic method offers, beyond question, the best chance of a complete
cure.

The tertiary stage presents us with no opportunity to do anything. The
institution is for all practical purposes dead. It can be founded afresh but
only with a change of name, a change of site, and an entirely different
staff The temptation, for the economically minded, is to transfer some
portion of the original staff to the new institution— in the name, for
example, of continuity. Such a transfusion would certainly be fatal, and
continuity is the very thing to avoid. No portion of the old and diseased
foundation can be regarded as free from infection. No staff, no equipment,
no fradition must be removed from the original site. Sfrict quarantine
should be followed by complete disinfection. Infected personnel should be
dispatched with a warm testimonial to such rival institutions as are
regarded with particular hostility. All equipment and files should be
desfroyed without hesitation. As for the buildings, the best plan is to
insure them heavily and then set them alight. Only when the site is a
blackened ruin can we feel certain that the germs of the disease are dead.

38

90

11. PALM THATCH TO PACKARD OR A FORMULA FOR SUCCESS

READERS WHO are all too familiar with popular works on anthropology may
be interested to learn that some recent investigations have involved a
completely novel approach. The ordinary anthropologist is one who spends six
weeks or six months (or even sometimes six years) among, say, the Borejoi
tribe at their settlement on the Upper Teedyas River, Darndreeryland. He
then returns to civilization with his photographs, tape recorders, and
notebooks, eager to write his book about sex life and superstition. For
tribes such as the Boreyu, life is made intolerable by all this peering and
prying. They often become converts to Presbyterianism in the belief that
they will thereupon cease to be of interest to anthropologists; nor in fact
has this device been known to fail. But enough primitive people remain for
the purposes of science. Books continue to multiply, and when the last tribe
has resorted to the singing of hymns in self-defense, there are still the
poor of the backstreets. These are perpetually pursued by questionnaire,
camera, and phonograph; and the written results are familiar to us all. What
is new about the approach now being attempted is not the technique of
investigation but the choice of a society 91 in which to work.
Anthropologists of this latest school ignore the primitive and have no time
for the poor. They prefer to do their fieldwork among the rich.

The team whose work we shall now describe, and to which the present
author is attached, made certain preliminary studies among Greek Shipping
Magnates and went on to deal in greater detail with the Arab Chieftains of
the Pipeline. When this line of investigation had to be abandoned, for
political and other reasons, the team went on to study the Chinese
Millionaires of Singapore. It is there we encountered the Flunky Puzzle. It
is there we first heard of the Chinese Hound Barrier. During the early
stages of our inquiry we did not know the meaning of either term. We did not
even know whether they were different names for the same thing. What we can
claim now is that we at least followed up the first clue to present itself

This clue we obtained in the course of a visit to the Singapore palace
of Mr. HuGot Dow. Turning to the equerry who had shown him round the
millionaire's collection of jade. Dr. Meddleton exclaimed, "Gee, and they
say he began life as a coolie!" To this the inscrutable Chinese replied,
"Only coolie can become millionaire. Only coolie can look like coolie. Only
velly lich man can afford to look Uch." Upon these few and enigmatic words
(of which no further explanation was offered) we based our whole scheme of
research. The detailed results are comprised in the Meddleton-Snooperage
Report (1956) but there is no reason why they should not be presented in a
simplified form for the general reader. What follows is just such an
outline, with technicalities mostly omitted.

Up to a point, as we recognized, the problem of the 92
coolie-millionaire offers no real difficulty. The Chinese coolie lives in a

39

palm-thatched hovel on a bowl of rice. When he has risen to a higher
occupation— hawking peanuts, for example, from a barrow— he still lives on
rice and still lives in a hovel. When he has risen farther— to the selling,
say, of possibly stolen bicycle parts, he keeps to his hovel and his rice.
The result is that he has money to invest. Of ten coolies in this situation,
nine will lose their money by unwise speculation. The tenth will be clever
or lucky. He will live, nevertheless, in his hovel. He will eat, as before,
his rice. As a success technique this is well worthy of study.

In the American log cabin story the point is soon reached at which the
future millionaire must wear a tie. He explains that he cannot otherwise
inspire confidence. He must also acquire a better address, purely (he says)
to gain prestige. In point of fact, the tie is to please his wife and the
address to satisfy his daughter. The Chinese have their womenfolk under
better control. So the prosperous coolie sticks to his hovel and his rice.
This is a known fact and admits of two explanations. In the first place his
home (whatever its other disadvantages) has undeniably brought him luck. In
the second place, a better house would unquestionably attract the notice of
the tax collector. So he wisely stays where he is. He will often keep the
original hovel— at any rate as an office— for the rest of his life. He
quits it so reluctantly that his decision to move marks a major crisis in
his career.

When he moves it is primarily to evade the exactions of secret

societies, blackmailers, and gangs. To conceal his growing wealth from the
tax collector is a relatively easy 93 matter; but to conceal it from his
business associates is practically impossible. Once the word goes round that
he is prospering, accurate guesses will be made as to the sum for which he
can be "touched." All this is admittedly well known, but previous
investigators have jumped too readily to the conclusion that there is only
one sum involved. In point of fact there are three: the sum the victim would
pay if kidnaped and held to ransom; the sum he would pay to keep a
defamatory article out of a Chinese newspaper; the sum he would subscribe to
charity rather than lose face.

Our task was to ascertain the figure the first sum will have reached
(on an average) at the moment when migration takes place from the original
hovel to a well-fenced house guarded by an Alsatian hound. It is this move
that has been termed "Breaking the Hound Barrier." Social scientists believe
that it will tend to occur as soon as the ransom to be exacted comes to
exceed the overhead costs of the "snatch."

At about the time a prosperous Chinese changes house he has also to
acquire a Chevrolet or Packard. Such a purchase often, however, antedates
the change of address. So the spectacle of the expensive car outside the
dingy office is too familiar to arouse much comment. No complete explanation
has so far been offered. Conceding, as we may, the need for a car, we should
rather expect it to share the squalor of its surroundings. For reasons not
yet apparent, however, Chinese prosperity is first and fairly measured in
terms of chromium, upholstery, make, and year. And the Packard will involve,
very soon, a wire fence, barred windows, padlocked garage, and hound. A
revolutionary change has occurred. If the Alsatian-owner does 94 not go so
far as to pay his taxes, he must at least know how to explain why no taxable
income has so far come his way. And supposing he can avoid paying $100,000
to gangsters, he can hardly avoid payment of blackmail in some form. He must
expect to receive obsequious journalists who claim credit for refusing to
publish hostile articles about him in dubious journals. He must expect to
see the same journalists a week later, this time collecting funds for some

40

vaguely described orphanage. He must accustom himself to the visits of trade
union officials offering for a consideration to discourage the industrial
unrest that will otherwise affect his interests. He must resign himself, in
fact, to the loss of a percentage.

One of our objects was to compile some detailed information about the
Alsatian-owning phase of a Chinese businessman's career. This was, in some
ways, the most difficult part of the whole investigation. There are types of
knowledge only to be gained at the price of torn trousers and bandaged
ankles. We are proud to think, in retrospect, that where risks were
inevitable they were taken unflinchingly. No fieldwork was needed, however,
to discover what actual amounts are paid in ransom. These figures are in
fact generally known and often quoted in the local press with some pretense
at accuracy. What is significant about these figures is the range between
the smallest and the largest figures quoted. Sums appear to vary from $5000
to $200,000- never as little as $2000 nor as much as $500,000. Nor can
there be any doubt that the majority of extortions fall within a narrower
range than that. Further research will, no doubt, establish what the average
amount can be taken to be. 95 96

If we suppose that the minimum extortion represents a figure just high
enough to yield a marginal profit, we shall as readily conclude that the
maximum extortion represents all that can be extracted from the richest men
that are ever kidnaped. It is manifest, however, that the very wealthiest
men are never kidnaped at all. There would seem to be a point beyond which
the Chinese gains immunity from blackmail. In this last phase, moreover, the
millionaire 97 seeks to emphasize rather than conceal his wealth,
demonstrating publicly that the point of immunity has been reached. So far,
no social scientist of our team has been able to discover how this final
immunity is achieved. Several have been thrown out of the Millionaires' Club
when trying to collect evidence on this point. Concluding that it has
something to do with the number of equerries, aides-de-camp, personal
assistants, secretaries, and valets (all much in evidence at this stage)
they have termed the problem "The Flunky Puzzle" and left it at that.

It is not to be supposed however that this problem will baffle us for
long. Indeed, we know already that our choice lies, broadly speaking,
between two alternative explanations, with the proviso that we may possibly
end by accepting both. One guess has been that the flunkies are really
gunmen forming an impenetrable bodyguard. The other guess is that the
millionaire has bought up an entire secret society and one against which no
other gang dare act. To test the former theory— by a carefully staged
holdup— would be relatively simple. At the cost of a life or two the fact
could be established beyond all reasonable doubt. To test the latter theory
would need more brains and possibly more courage. With several casualties
already among the brave dog-bitten members of our team, we did not feel
justified in pursuing this line of research. We concluded that we had
neither the men nor the funds to complete the investigation. Having since
received timely aid from the Miss Plaste Trust (Far East branch) we hope to
know the answer fairly soon.

A problem that remains, even after the publication of our interim
report, is the enigma of Chinese tax evasion. 98 All that we could discover
about this was that Western methods are not widely used. As is well known,
the Western technique depends on discovering the standard delay (or S.D., as

41

we call it among ourselves) in the department with which we have to deal.
That is, of course, the normal lapse of time between the receipt of a letter
and its being dealt with. It is, to be more exact, the time it takes for a
file to rise from the bottom of the in-tray to the top of the pile.
Supposing this to be twenty-seven days, the Western tax evader begins his
campaign by writing to ask why he has received no notice of assessment. It
does not matter, actually, what he says in the letter. All he wants is to
ensure that his file, with its new enclosure, will be at the bottom of the
heap. Twenty-five days later he will write again, asking why his first
letter has not been answered. This sends his file back to the bottom again
just when it was almost reaching the top. Twenty- five days later he writes
again. ... So his file is never dealt with at all and never in fact comes
into view. This being the method known to us all, and known to be
successful, we naturally concluded that it was known also to the Chinese. We
found, however, that these is no S.D. in the East. Owing to variations in
climate and sobriety, the government departments lack that ordered rhythm
which would make them predictable. Whatever method the Chinese use, it
cannot depend upon a known S.D.

To this problem we have, it should be emphasized, no final solution.
All we have is a theory upon the validity of which it would be premature to
comment. It was put forward by one of our most brilliant investigators and
can be described as no more than an inspired guess. According 99 to this
supposition the Chinese millionaire does not wait for his assessment, but
prefers to send the tax collector a check in advance for, say, $329.83. A
covering note refers briefly to earlier correspondence and a previous sum
paid in cash. The effect of this maneuver is to throw the whole
tax-collecting machine out of gear. Disorganization turns to chaos when a
further letter arrives, apologizing for the error and asking for
twenty-three cents back. Officials are so perturbed and mystified that they
produce no response of any kind for about eighteen months— and another
check reaches them before that period has elapsed, this time for $167.42. In
this way, the theory goes, the millionaire pays virtually nothing and the
inspector of taxes ends in a padded cell. Unproved as this theory may be, it
seems worthy of careful investigation. We might at least give it afrial.
100

10. PENSION POINT, OR THE AGE OF RETIREMENT

OF THE MANY problems discussed and solved in this work, it is proper
that the question of retirement should be left to the last. It has been the
subject of many commissions of inquiry but the evidence heard has always
been hopelessly conflicting and the final recommendations muddled,
inconclusive, and vague. Ages of compulsory retirement are fixed at points
varying from 55 to 75, all being equally arbitrary and unscientific.
Whatever age has been decreed by accident and custom can be defended by the
same argument. Where the retirement age is fixed at 65 the defenders of this
system will always have found, by experience, that the mental powers and
energy show signs of flagging at the age of 62. This would be a most useful

42

conclusion to have reached had not a different phenomenon been observed in
organizations where the age of retirement has been fixed at 60. There, we
are told, people are found to lose their grip, in some degree, at the age of
57. As against that, men whose retiring age is 55 are known to be past their
best at 52. It would seem, in short, that efficiency declines at the age of
R minus 3, irrespective of the age at which R has been fixed. This is an
interesting fact in itself but not 101 directly helpful when it comes to
deciding what the R age is to be.

But while the R— 3 age is not directly useful to us, it may serve to
suggest that the investigations hitherto pursued have been on the wrong
lines. The observation often made that men vary, some being old at 50,
others still energetic at 80 or 90, may well be true, but here again the
fact leads us nowhere. The truth is that the age of retirement should not be
related in any way to the man whose retirement we are considering. It is his
successor we have to watch: the man (Y) destined to replace the other man
(X) when the latter retires. He will pass, as is well known, the following
stages in his successful career:

1 . Age of Qualification — Q

2. Age of Discretion = D (Q + 3)

3. Age of Promotion = P (D + 7)

4. Age of Responsibility = R (P + 5)

5. Age of Authority = A (R + 3)

6. Age of Achievement = AA (A + 7)

7. Age of Distinction = DD (AA + 9)

8. Age of Dignity = DDD (DD + 6)

9. Age of Wisdom = W (DDD + 3)

10. Age of Obstruction = 00 (W + 7)

The above scale is governed by the numerical value of Q. Now, Q is to
be understood as a technical term It does not mean that a man at Q knows
anything of the business he will have to transact. Architects, for example,
pass some form of examination but are seldom found to know anything useful
at that point (or indeed any other point) in 102 their career. The term Q
means the age at which a professional or business career begins, usually
after an elaborate training that has proved profitable only to those paid
for organizing it. It will be seen that if Q = 22, X will not reach 00 (the
Age of Obstruction) until he is 72. So far as his own efficiency is
concerned, there is no valid reason for replacing him until he is 71. But
our problem centers not on him but on Y, his destined successor. How are the
ages of X and Y likely to compare? To be more exact, how old will X have
been when Y first entered the department or firm?

This problem has been the subject of prolonged investigation. Our
inquiries have tended to prove that the age gap between X and Y is exactly
fifteen years. (It is not, we find, the normal practice for the son to
succeed the father directly.) Taking this average of fifteen years, and
assuming that Q = 22, we find that Y will have reached AA (the Age of
Achievement) at 47, when X is only 62. And that, clearly, is where the
crisis occurs. For Y, if thwarted in his ambition through X's still
retaining control, enters, it has been proved, a different series of stages
in his career. These stages are as follows:

6. Age of Frustration (F) = A + 7

7. Age of Jealousy (J) = F + 9

43

8. Age of Resignation (R) = J + 4

9. Age of Oblivion (O) = R + 5

When X, therefore, is 72, Y is 57, just entering on the Age of
Resignation. Should X at last retire at that age, Y is quite unfit to take
his place, being now resigned (after 103 a decade of frustration and
jealousy) to a career of mediocrity. For Y, opportunity will have come just
ten years too late.

The age of Frustration will not always be the same in years, depending
as it does on the factor Q, but its symptoms are easy to recognize. The man
who is denied the opportunity of taking decisions of importance begins to
104 regard as important the decisions he is allowed to take. He becomes
fussy about filing, keen on seeing that pencils are sharpened, eager to
ensure that the windows are open (or shut), and apt to use two or three
different-colored inks. The Age of Jealousy reveals itself in an emphasis
upon seniority. "After all, I am still somebody. " "I was never consulted. "
"Z has very little experience." But that period 105 gives place to the Age
of Resignation. "I am not one of these ambitious types." "Z is welcome to a
seat on the Board— more trouble than it is worth, I should say." "Promotion
would only have interfered with my golf" The theory has been advanced that
the Age of Frustration is also marked by an interest in local politics. It
is now known, however, that men enter local politics solely as a result of
being unhappily married. It will be apparent, however, from the other
symptoms described, that the man still in a subordinate position at 47 (or
equivalent) will never be fit for anything else.

The problem, it is now clear, is to make X retire at the age of 60,
while still able to do the work better than anyone else. The immediate
change may be for the worse but the alternative is to have no possible
successor at hand when X finally goes. And the more outstanding X has proved
to be, and the longer his period of office, the more hopeless is the task of
replacing him. Those nearest him in the seniority are already too old and
have been subordinate for too long. All they can do is to block the way for
anyone junior to them; a task in which they will certainly not fail. No
competent successor will appear for years, nor at all until some crisis has
brought a new leader to the fore. So the hard decision has to be taken.
Unless X goes in good time, the whole organization will eventually suffer.
But how is X to be moved?

In this, as in so many other matters, modern science is not at a loss.
The crude methods of the past have been superseded. In days gone by it was
usual, no doubt, for the other directors to talk inaudibly at board
meetings, one merely opening and shutting his mouth and another nodding 106
in apparent comprehension, thus convincing the chairman that he was actually
going deaf But there is a modern technique that is far more effective and
certain. The method depends essentially on air travel and the filling in of
forms. Research has shown that complete exhaustion in modern life results
from a combination of these two activities. The high official who is given
enough of each will very soon begin to talk of retirement. It used to be the
custom in primitive African tribes to liquidate the king or chief at a
certain point in his career, either after a period of years or at the moment
when his vital powers appeared to have gone. Nowadays the technique is to
lay before the great man the program of a conference at Helsinki in June, a

44

congress at Adelaide in July, and a convention at Ottawa in August, each
lasting about three weeks. He is assured that the prestige of the department
or firm will depend on his presence and that the delegation of this duty to
anyone else would be regarded as an insult by all others taking part. The
program of travel will allow of his return to the office for about three or
four days between one conference and the next. He will find his in-tray
piled high on each occasion with forms to fill in, some relating to his
travels, some to do with applications for permits or quota allocations, and
the rest headed "Income Tax." On his completion of the forms awaiting his
signature after the Ottawa convention, he will be given the program for a
new series of conferences; one at Manila in September, the second at Mexico
City in October, and the third at Quebec in November. By December he will
admit that he is feeling his age. In January he will announce his intention
to retire.

The essence of this technique is so to arrange matters 107 that the
conferences are held at places the maximum distance apart and in climates
offering the sharpest contrast in heat and cold. There should be no
possibility whatever of a restful sea voyage in any part of the schedule. It
must be air travel all the way. No particular care need be taken in the
choice between one route and another. All are alike in being planned for the
convenience of the mails rather than the passengers. It can safely be
assumed, almost without inquiry, that most flights will involve takeoff at
2.50 A.M., reporting at the airfield at 1.30 and weighing baggage at the
terminal at 12.45. Arrival will be scheduled for 3.10 A.M. on the next day
but one. The aircraft will invariably, however, be somewhat overdue,
touching down in fact at 3.57 A.M., so that passengers will be clear of
customs and immigration by about 4.35. Going one way around the world, it is
possible and indeed customary to have breakfast about three times. In the
opposite direction the passengers will have nothing to eat for hours at a
stretch, being finally offered a glass of sherry when on the point of
collapse from malnutrition. Most of the flight time will of course be spent
in filling in various declarations about currency and health. How much have
you in dollars (U.S.), pounds (sterling), francs, marks, guilders, yen,
lire, and pounds (Australian); how much in letters of credit, travelers
checks, postage stamps, and postal orders? Where did you sleep last night
and the night before that? (This last is an easy question, for the air
traveler is usually able to declare, in good faith, that he has not slept at
all for the past week.) When were you born and what was your grandmother's
maiden name? How many children have you and why? What will be the length of
your stay and where? What is 108 the object of your visit, if any? (As if by
now you could even remember.) Have you had chicken pox and why not? Have you
a visa for Patagonia and a re-entry permit for Hongkong? The penalty for
making a false declaration is life imprisonment. Fasten your seat belts,
please. We are about to land at Rangoon. Local time is 2.47 A.M. Outside
temperature is 110° F. We shall stop here for approximately one hour.
Breakfast will be served on the aircraft five hours after takeoff Thank
you. (For what, in heaven's name?) No smoking, please.

It will be observed that air travel, considered as a
retirement-accelerator, has the advantage of including a fair amount of
form-filling. But form-filling proper is a separate ordeal, not necessarily
connected with travel. The art of devising forms to be filled in depends on
three elements: obscurity, lack of space, and the heaviest penalties for
failure. In a form-compiling department, obscurity is ensured by various
branches dealing respectively with ambiguity, irrelevance, and jargon. But

45

some of the simpler devices have now become automatic. Thus, a favorite
opening gambit is a section, usually in the top right-hand corner, worded
thus:

Return rendered in respect of the month of

As you have been sent the form on February 16, you have no idea whether
it relates to last month, this month or next. Only the sender knows that,
but he is asking you. At this point the ambiguity expert takes over,
collaborating closely with a space consultant, and this is the result: 109

Cross out the word which does not apply Full name Address Domicile When naturalized and why Status
Mr. Mrs. Miss

Such a form as this is especially designed, of course, for a Colonel,
Lord, Professor, or Doctor called Alexander Winthrop Percival
Blenkinsop-Fotheringay of Battleaxe Towers, Layer-de-la-Haye, near
Newcastle-under-Lyme, Lincolnshire-parts-of-Kesteven (whatever that may
mean). Follows the word "Domicile," which is practically meaningless except
to an international lawyer, and after that a mysterious reference to
naturalization. Lastly, we have the word "Status," which leaves the
filler-in wondering whether to put "Admiral (Ret'd)," "Married," "American
Citizen" or "Managing Director."

Now the ambiguity expert hands over the task to a specialist in
irrelevance, who calls in a new space allocator to advise on layout:

Number of your identity card or passport

Note: The penalty for furnishing incorrect
information may be a fine of
&sterling;5000 or a year's penal servitude,
or quite possibly both.

Your

grandfather's
full name

Your

grandmother's
maiden name

Have you been
vaccinated,
inoculated; when &
why

Give

full

details

110

Then the half-completed work of art is sent to the jargon speciaUst,
who produces something on these lines:

What special circumstances^^^ are alleged to justify the adjusted allocation for which request is made in respect
of the quota period to which the former application^"*^ relates, whether or not the former level had been revised
and in what sense and for what purpose and whether this or any previous application made by any other party
or parties has been rejected by any other planning authority under subsection VII^'' or for any other reason, and
whether this or the latter decision was made the subject of an appeal and with what result and why.

Finally, the form goes to the technician, who adds the
space-for-signature section, the finish that crowns the whole.

46

I/we [block capitals] declare under penalty that all the information I/we

have furnished above is true to the best of my/our knowledge, as witness my/our
signature signed this day of 19 (Signature)

Photograph s^^i

WITNESS: Name Address Occupation Passport _ ,

Size Thumb print

This is quite straightforward except for the final touch of confusion
as to whose photograph or thumb print is wanted, the I/we person or the
witness. It probably does not matter, anyway. Ill

Experiment has shown that an elderly man in a responsible position will
soon be forced to retire if given sufficient air travel and sufficient
forms. Instances are frequent, moreover, of such elderly men deciding to
retire before the treatment has even begun. At the first mention of a
conference at Stockholm or Vancouver, they often realize that their time has
arrived. Very rarely nowadays is it necessary to adopt methods of a severe
character. The last recorded resort to these was in a period soon after the
conclusion of World War II. The high official concerned was particularly
tough and the only remedy found was to send him on a tour of tin mines and
rubber estates in Malaya. This method is best fried in January, and with jet
aircraft to make the climatic transition more abrupt. On landing at 5.52
P.M. (Malayan time) this official was rushed off at once to a cocktail
party, from that to another cocktail party (held at a house fifteen miles
from the hotel where the first took place), and from that to a dinner party
(eleven miles in the opposite direction). He was in bed by about 2.30 A.M.
and on board an aircraft at seven the next morning. Landing at Ipoh in time
for a belated breakfast, he was then taken to visit two rubber estates, a
tin mine, an oil-palm plantation, and a factory for canning pineapples.
After lunch, given by the Rotary Club, he was taken to a school, a clinic,
and a community center. There followed two cocktail parties and a Chinese
banquet of twenty courses, the numerous toasts being drunk in neat brandy
served in tumblers. The formal discussion on policy began next morning and
lasted for three days, the meetings interspersed with formal receptions and
nightly banquets in Sumafran or Indian style. That the freatment was too
severe was 112 fairly apparent by the fifth day, during the afternoon of
which the distinguished visitor could walk only when supported by a
secretary on one side, a personal assistant on the other. On the sixth day
he died, thus confirming the general impression that he must have been tired
or unwell. Such methods as these are now discountenanced, and have since
indeed proved needless. People are learning to retire in time.

But a serious problem remains. What are we ourselves to do when nearing
the retirement age we have fixed for others? It will be obvious at once that
our own case is entirely different from any other case we have so far
considered. We do not claim to be outstanding in any way, but it just so
happens that there is no possible successor in sight. It is with genuine
reluctance that we agree to postpone our retirement for a few years, purely
in the public interest. And when a senior member of staff approaches us with
details of a conference at Teheran or Hobart, we promptly wave it aside,
announcing that all conferences are a waste of time. "Besides," we continue
blandly, "my arrangements are already made. I shall be salmon fishing for
the next two months and will return to this office at the end of October, by
which date I shall expect aU the forms to have been filled in. Goodbye

47

until then." We knew how to make our predecessors retire. When it comes to
forcing our own retirement, our successors must find some method of their
own. 113

This ponderous gentleman, Mr. Cypher, whose stirring story may be found
in the chapter on Injelititis, is pictured at the moment of his preferment
for his "better judgment." C. Northcote Parkinson does not claim, by
Cypher's standards, to have any judgment at all. Nonetheless, he is the
Raffles Professor of History at the University of Malaya and the author of
some seventeen scholarly publications. Born at Barnard Castle, County
Durham, in 1909, he was educated at St. Peter's School, York, and at the
Universities of Cambridge and London. In turn, he has taught at several
academic, naval, and military institutions. Perhaps his most valuable
education, however, dates from his work in the War Office and the RAF during
World War II, for it is known that from this experience Parkinson's great
Law came into being.

48